“Too late for sorry.”
Jules dashed to the counter, where her cell phone was charging. The woman blocked her way, raised the knife. Screaming, Jules darted left, leaving the kitchen. Through the dining room. Toppling a chair. If she could reach her bedroom and the gun—
“Help me!” Her bare feet pounded through the living room, down the hall. Her hand brushed a framed photo, sent it crashing to the floor. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth. Heart exploding with terror. The knowledge that she was going to die. That she deserved this. That hell was waiting for her with open arms.
She heard the woman scant feet behind her. Shoes hard against the floor. “You killed them! Die kinner!” The children. “Die kinner!”
At the end of the hall, Jules started to go right toward the bedroom. The blade slashed down. The searing heat of a cut flashed on her right forearm. She felt the warm spurt of blood. Panic leaping in her chest. Crying out for help, she ran toward the bathroom.
A dozen feet away. The door standing half open. Jules hit the door with both hands. It slammed wide, hit the wall like a gunshot. Then she was inside. Spinning to close the door. Lock it. Lock out the past. Lock out death.
The door burst open, striking her in the face. She reeled backward, dazed. The knife arced to her left. The blade glinted, pierced her shoulder. She danced back. Slapped at the knife with both hands. “No!”
Pain streaked across her left palm. Blood warm on her arm. She turned, looked around wildly. The bathroom window. If she could break it, get through before she was mortally wounded …
She was midway there when the blade slammed into her back with the force of a baseball bat. She felt the blade hit bone. Another scream ripped from her lungs. Electric pain streaking down her spine. And then she was falling.
On the floor. Cold tile against her bare legs. She twisted, sat up. The woman hovered over her. Dead calm expression. Knife raised. Murder in her eyes.
“Murderer,” she said.
Jules scrambled away, made it to her hands and knees. She floundered, bare feet sliding on tile slick with blood. She grabbed the shower curtain, pulled herself to her feet, partially ripping it from the rod. She faced her attacker, raised her hands to protect herself. “Don’t.” The word came out in a pant of panic. “Please.”
Mouth contorted in rage, the woman slashed. Violently, putting her body weight into it. Fire flashed across Jules’s throat. The knowledge that it was a death blow. Terror ripping through every nerve ending.
Jules tried to scream, gargled blood. She saw blood on the blade. On the tile. Red against her bare arms. Her right calf hit the side of the tub. The knife came down again, a hammer blow to her sternum. No air in her lungs. No way to breathe. She fell backwards into the tub. Darkness closing in. The familiar face looking down at her, now as impassive and cold as a predator on prey.
I didn’t mean for you to die, she thought.
And then the knife came down again.
*
Tomasetti calls my cell twice during the drive from the farm to my house in Painters Mill. As much as I want to speak to him and work this out, I don’t answer. There’s no simple fix for the issues we’re dealing with. And I’ve got too many emotions pinging around inside me to partake in a meaningful conversation. An uncomfortable mix of fear and anger and, as much as I don’t want to admit it—even to myself—jealousy. Probably better for both of us to cool off before we talk.
I park in the driveway and sprint through the pouring rain to the front door and let myself inside. The house is dark, and even though I’ve gone to great lengths to maintain it as I try to decide whether to sell or rent, it has the feel of a place that’s been closed up without fresh air for a long time.
A pang of melancholy moves through me. This was my first house, and I’ve loved it since the first time I saw it four years ago. I painted every room myself and chose the colors with such care. I spent a week’s salary on the Amish rug in the living room. This place is so much more than a house. It symbolized a fresh start for me, a new phase of my life when I moved back to Painters Mill and became chief.
Tonight, standing in the living room, looking down at the layer of dust on the coffee table that had once been polished to a high sheen, it no longer feels like home.
I don’t let myself think about Tomasetti or the harsh words between us as I pull linens from the hall closet and put them on the bed. A quick shower, and I climb between the sheets. Despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come easily and I end up tossing and turning for an hour before I can turn off my mind. When slumber finally descends, it’s restless and fraught with dreams.