Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
For a moment, we all just stare at each other.
“Huh,” Julian manages to say, blood bubbling from his lips. “Well, that’s one way to—”
And then he’s gone.
I look down at the knife in my hand, then at Julian slumped in his chair, then back at the knife.
“Oh god,” I whisper. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
Blue moves to my side, and I can feel his hand hovering near my shoulder, like he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure I’ll let him. When he speaks, his words carry the faintest trace of what might be amusement. “Well. That was . . . unexpected.”
“I killed him,” I say, my voice climbing toward hysteria. “I killed him by accident. Who does that? Who accidentally murders someone?”
“Technically, you still murdered him,” Blue points out helpfully. “The method was just . . . unconventional.”
My stomach chooses that moment to revolt completely. I drop the knife and barely make it three steps before Wren’s perfect breakfast comes back up in violent waves.
“This is harder than it looks,” I say weakly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Most first kills are,” Blue says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh. “Though I’ll admit, I’ve never seen one accomplished through interpretive dance.”
My stomach lurches again at the sight of Julian’s lifeless form, and I press my hand to my mouth. “Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick again.”
I stumble up the stone steps, leaving Blue and Julian’s very dead body behind. By the time I reach my room, I’m running. I slam the door and lock it, then collapse onto the four-poster bed still wearing my perfect polka dot dress.
I killed him. I actually killed him.
By accident.
While having a panic attack.
This is either the most pathetic victory in the history of revenge, or the most ridiculous tragedy in the history of murder. I’m not sure which is worse.
But lying there staring at the painted ceiling, I can’t shake the image of Julian’s surprised expression when he realized he was dying, or the way his blood looked so much redder than I’d expected.
I did it. I killed one of my father’s murderers.
Even if I did it completely by accident while waving a knife around like a deranged conductor.
God, what must Blue think? I was supposed to be some dangerous femme fatale, not a disaster who accidentally murders people and then pukes everywhere.
And with that thought . . . I bolt for the bathroom.
Chapter Twenty-One
Blue
The sound of running water from Saylor’s bathroom tells me she’s trying to wash away what happened in the basement. I stand outside her door for a full minute, listening to the rhythm of her movements through the heavy wood. Toothbrush against porcelain. Faucet turning on and off. The soft thud of a glass being set down with more force than necessary. She’s angry at herself, which is exactly what I expected and precisely what I need to address before it festers into something that drives her away from what we both want.
But fuck, the way she threw up and ran—that’s on me. I’ve been killing people for so long I forgot what it looks like to someone who hasn’t had their soul scraped hollow by necessity. Peter would probably haunt my ass for even letting her near Julian, let alone handing her a blade and saying “have at it.” What kind of friend puts his best mate’s daughter in a basement with a tied-up psychopath and expects her to carve him up like Sunday dinner?
The truth is, watching her try to work up the nerve to slide steel into Julian’s throat did something twisted to my insides. Part of me wanted her to do it—wanted to see that spark of darkness catch fire that I know lives in her. But a bigger part wanted to shield her from ever having to cross that line. Peter raised her to sing jazz and worry about rent money, not to develop a taste for arterial spray.
I knock gently. “Saylor?”
“Go away.” It’s muffled but clear enough to hear the embarrassment threading through the words. “I’m busy contemplating my complete failure as a human being.”
“You’re not a failure.”
“I threw up on your basement floor and then ran away like a child.” The bathroom door falls opens and I hear her footsteps crossing the room. “I’m pretty sure that qualifies as failing.”
When she appears in the doorframe, she’s got a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, foam dotting her lips, and somehow she still manages to look like something worth burning cities for.
“Throwing up just means you’re still human,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “First time I killed someone, I puked for an hour and then couldn’t eat meat for a week. Perfectly normal response to crossing that particular line.”
She removes the toothbrush long enough to glare at me. “Yeah, well, most people don’t have their first kill watched by someone who’s apparently a professional at it.”