“That’s my point. You read too much into it.”
Regan sank to the ground, pulling her legs in Indian-style. Jeremy followed suit, sitting close beside her.
“I can’t keep going back and forth,” she said finally. “I have to trust you, or I’ll go crazy.”
The words shattered his heart. Shattered his hope. There was no way to plant a permanent seed of faith inside her. He realized that now. He would fail at nurturing it, and it would die. Over and over and over, running them to exhaustion in a never-ending circle of doubt. He couldn’t live in constant fear. It wasn’t fair for her, too, either.
He made a decision and took hold of her hand. She jumped but didn’t pull away.
“I wish I knew how to make you trust me,” he said softly.
His thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand, and she shivered. She thought it an uncharacteristic move and wondered where he found the courage to do it.
“I . . . I maybe exaggerated the meaning,” she said. “Like you said: reading too much into something that was never there.”
He nodded, though he didn’t believe a word she said.
“I’m completely at your mercy, Regan,” he admitted. “Do you understand that? You have all the power over me.”
“But I don’t want power over you,” she argued.
“Then you have to believe me. You have to believe I’d never hurt anyone. If you don’t, I can’t live. You understand that? I can’t live except in constant fear, thinking every moment someone’s gonna come to arrest me.”
She turned sharply, catching his eyes and demanding silently that he not look away. He acquiesced, recognizing that this was the moment he’d dreamed about for years. He could do it, and she would let him. Why? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps out of sympathy. Maybe out of mutual desire. Maybe as an apology for what she knew she’d have to do next: turn him in. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just knew that the moment may never again present itself, so he had to take advantage of it.
He leaned into her, moving his hand from hers to cradle the back of her head. He laced his fingers in her silky hair to encourage her submission. She relaxed—an invitation to proceed. Explore. Connect. He pressed his lips to hers—glossy soft—and waited for her response. She kissed him back, sealing her fate.
His hand left her head to rest on her right shoulder. His other hand moved to her left.
“I always wanted to be your friend, too,” he said into her mouth, and he felt her smile against his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she asked.
He took hold of her throat—squeezing tightly—cutting off her air supply in a flash, feeling her mouth go wide in shock and panic. He heard the first desperate gulp for air—a faint wheeze—and felt her hands on his trying to pry apart his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “But I can’t trust you. I’ll never trust you.”
He pulled away and looked into her eyes—black and terrified—then turned away at the first twinge of sympathy. Her feet kicked out, and he knew she may discover that superhuman strength to survive. She would knee his face and break his grip, giving her the few precious seconds she’d need to run and scream for help. He couldn’t let that happen.
He forced her onto her back, providing leverage to use his upper body against her—more power than he realized he possessed. He squeezed her throat harder, listening to the pathetic attempts for air—gurgling and sputtering and hissing. Her eyes streamed. So many tears! One by one they rushed down her temples, pooling in her ears and soaking her hair.
Her nose oozed. Her lips swelled—parted wider—and he watched her tongue dart in and out, desperate for air. Saliva spilled over both corners. These were the signs of unwilling submission. He knew in a moment it would all be over.
She jerked and strained, fighting now with her arms. They flailed about uselessly, every now and then striking his cheeks gently. Her strength waned. Her face turned blue. Her tears stalled.
“Jeremy,” she mouthed. A plea for mercy.
He almost relented. Almost.
Her body shuddered, and he imagined the rotors of her heart spinning slowly to a stop. Five o’clock. Quitting time. No need to show up for work tomorrow.
One final jerk—the body’s last desperate attempt to survive—and then she lay still. He studied her face. Lips parted. Eyes open—glassy and unseeing. No movement. She was a frozen princess. He cupped her icy cheeks and bent his forehead to hers. And then he cried into her dead eyes, spilling his anger and all the horror of his actions. He killed the girl he loved. He killed the girl who defended him all those years ago. He killed a good person. He killed in order to kill again . . .
“NO!!!!” he screamed under the truck.
Roy sprinted to the vehicle, terrified the jack collapsed and smashed Jeremy.
“What?! What is it?!” he shouted, running around the truck taking hasty assessments. Nothing appeared out of order.
Jeremy shot out from underneath, face streaked with tears and grime, chest heaving under his heavy hands.
Roy dropped to his knees. “Where are you hurt? What hurts?”
“My heart!” Jeremy cried, shivering uncontrollably.
Roy pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”
“No!” Jeremy said.
He was breathless with fear, unable to determine what was dream and reality. Did he do it? Did he kill Regan, leaving her body cold and alone in an abandoned lot? How long before someone discovered it? Discovered him?
“Jeremy, what’s wrong?” Roy demanded.
He slapped his hand on Jeremy’s chest. Steady, strong heartbeat, albeit racing. Steadily racing. Anxiety attack? A bad dream? Did he really fall asleep under a truck?
“I don’t know!” Jeremy gasped.
Roy hauled him to a sitting position.
“Face between your knees,” he ordered. “Breathe deeply. Count. Breathe in. Hold for five. Breathe out. Count it!”