Simon has not locked the door. He might be on the way now. Realizing, in whatever drug stupor that’s claimed his body, that he is late. Flooring his Kia’s gas pedal, not wanting to anger his source of pharmaceutical assistance. I move closer to the door, my bare feet sliding out, gripping concrete floor, my ass dragging across the cool surface as it plays catch-up with my heels. Closer now. Close enough that I see a dried line of blood, no doubt shed in a past attempt to break down my door and kill someone.
It hasn’t been long since I’ve had blood on my hands. Too short, really. Too short for me to want it like this. I had hoped, some twisted form of hope, that by killing, I would pacify the bloodthirstiness of my soul. That’s how it works in books. The serial killer kills every once in a while, and that death tides him over until the next psychological breakdown. But I only got a few days of solace, a few days where my mental state was so ruined that I could only sleep. Sleep and lie with Jeremy and let him take care of me. He had been so caring, so worried. I wonder if he’d have been so nurturing had he known what I had done.
I let the sharp blade sink into Ralph’s skin and yank left, cutting the throat as I have, through books and videos, been taught, the blade jerking in a wet sweep across his neck until it breaks loose of the skin.
I close my eyes and savor the memory. Wrap my arms tightly around my knees and rock back and forth, focusing on the images in my head, the way his blood pooled in the dirt, the look in his eyes, the steal of death across his features. The power. The rush. This is what Dr. Derek has taught me, this is what I know. When the urges get too strong, I am to contain myself and let the fantasies run wild. But I am not contained, my door is unlocked, and I can’t focus on anything but the opportunity before me. Time is wasting. Any minute I could hear the scrape of metal on metal and my opportunity will be gone. I bounce to my feet and stand, my breath quickening as I fight what I want with what I know. I know I shouldn’t. But I am weak. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I step forward and wrap my hand around the knob. Mentally prepare myself as—very faintly—my brain screams at me to stop.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I repeat the words and pretend to believe them. I can do this. I can leave the house at night. Just cross the street. Ice cream. I’ve gotten ice cream before. Ice cream and lotto. Maybe scratch-off or maybe I’ll buy my Powerball early.
I’m not leaving to kill.
I twist the knob and pull open the last barrier before me.
CHAPTER 55
FINALLY AT HIS destination, Marcus slips gloves on, working finger by finger through the leather, flexing his hands when complete, his heart thudding quicker than it ever has, excitement flooding him.
Finally.
Now.
He has waited so long.
He turns off the car and surveys the shitty street before him.
CHAPTER 56
I AM NAKED. A piece of my sanity speaks up, the warm air of the hall hitting my skin, a sharp contrast to the icy chill of my apartment. I pause, the heel of my foot stopping the closing of the door. I look down at small breasts and bare legs. No weapon. Not that I need one. Not that I am leaving to kill. No one ever strangled someone to death with sexuality. I step back, like a jerky video set in rewind, left-right-left until my door swings shut and I am back in 6E. I move to my bed, bend before the stack of clothes, and grab sweatpants and a T-shirt, pulling them on without undergarments, my movement quick. I snatch a hair elastic off the bathroom sink and pull my long hair back into a messy bun. Grab a baseball cap of Jeremy’s and tug it on, a quick glance into the mirror letting me know that I am good.
Ice cream.
A paper ticket that might hold a fortune.
Proof that I can handle freedom.
Without allowing myself to think, I push aside cardboard towers, squeezing back into the far corner of my apartment, my hands shaking in excitement by the time I reach my safe.
I spin the dial, 22-31-14, the gritty scrape of metal on metal giving way, and the door swings open. My eyes dance over the selection as the reality of what I am doing pushes its way into my mind. Is this who I am? A girl who can’t take a single night without supervision? Ice cream. Lotto. I step back. Stare at the 9mm that leans against the right side of the space. It’s loaded; I keep it loaded, with one in the chamber. I step another few steps back and fumble on the bed for my cell. Have trouble finding it among the tangle of my sheets. I dial the number I know by heart and hold it to my ear.
It rings and rings. With every ring the sound fades, and all I hear is the pounding in my head. The bellowing knock of insanity, it bangs at the inside of my skull and pushes me forward. I step forward as the phone rings, closer to the safe. Ring. My hand reaches out, tugs out the gun. Ring. It is cold in my hand but warm with possibilities. Ring. I heft it, feel the weight of it, then put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt, my finger light on the trigger. I will not kill anyone. It will be my protection. Ice cream. Lotto. I prefer my killing to be done with knives; I like blood, appreciate the close contact of manually cutting through a soul and watching it run, like uncontrolled tears, out of a body.
I know. Probably shouldn’t stick that into the “Favorite Activities” section of a Match.com profile. I hang up the phone when his voice mail begins. Stick the cell in my pocket and head for the door, my conscience unable to be heard above the ringing in my ears.