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“Goodnight, detective,” I say, smiling as I plunge the knife into his chest, angling it up below his ribs.
He gasps, thrashing in shock, his eyes wide with confusion. I drive it up higher, deep as I can, before yanking it back. Blood explodes from the wound, painting his shirt and the recliner crimson. He wheezes, unable to breathe. He tries to reach for me, in one last-ditch effort to stop me. But it’s too late.
He falls to the floor, motionless, his eyes glazing over as he chokes on his own blood.
Quick and dirty. Not usually my style. Bryant deserves worse—specifically a slow and agonizing torture session—but time is of the essence. I wipe the blade on the recliner before sheathing it and getting to work hunting down and destroying any evidence I can get my hands on.
After torching the board and a bunch of documents in Bryant’s backyard fire pit, I retreat to my car and drive back to Grand Pointe Apartments. A reasonable boyfriend would swing by to pick up his girl and let her in on his plans. But I’m running on a tight schedule.
I need to frame someone for the killings. And I’m sure that Gwen will understand—even if we have to skip town sooner than I originally expected.
I have the perfect scapegoat in mind.
My neighbor across the hall, Alex Harris, is a notorious tweaker who blasts obnoxious music at all hours. Law enforcement may link his downfall to the dealers he associates with, but I will ensure there will be no mistake about his involvement in the murders. The FBI will have no choice but to pin the blame on him.
Using the night as cover, I park in the lot and enter the building with my hood pulled tight. I’m not wearing my mask; obviously, I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Not at this critical step of my plan. Casually, I ascend the stairs and go into my apartment with my duffle bag slung over my shoulder. Bryant’s body is still in the car, and I refuse to leave my tools with his decaying remains.
I’ll deal with the disposal soon enough.
I freshen up before putting on my mask and heading over to Alex’s place. No light seeps from the crack beneath his door, so he’s probably sleeping off a high. The familiar thumping bass resonates from inside, the same sound that has often kept me up at night. I pick the lock and enter, closing the door behind me to ensure there’s no escape for him.
The lights are off, except for the bathroom where I can hear the water running.
Weapon in hand, I slink to the bathroom. The shower curtain is drawn, and steam fills the room. Alex hums off-key to the beat as he scrubs his scalp. Steadying my grip, I yank back the curtain. His bloodshot eyes snap open in surprise, a look of confusion quickly morphing into fear when he glimpses my knife.
“W-who are you?!” he stammers, backing away slowly.
I give him a sinister smirk, even though he can’t see it. “Just think of me as the angel of death,” I say, raising my knife.
He pales as he realizes what’s about to happen. He scrambles away, screaming in terror, his back hitting the wall tiles. “Please! No! Don’t do this!” he pleads.
I shake my head and take a step closer, my grip tightening on the handle of the knife. “You should have thought about that before you started dealing drugs in our neighborhood, Alex,” I say coldly.
He blanches, his eyes widening. “Who sent you?”
Chuckling darkly, I take a step forward, the blade glinting in the harsh bathroom light. “No one needs to send me,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Justice is here.”
“Fuck you, freak!”
He struggles to break free, but my grip is ironclad. I bring the blade up to his throat and he quakes in fear, the reality of what’s happening finally sinking in. With a quick flick of my wrist, I slit his throat. He gasps for breath, his fingers coming up to clutch at his neck. He falls to the shower floor with a thud, his blood forming a river of crimson as it swirls down the drain.
I remove the mask, sucking in a gulp of fresh air. “That’s for interrupting my sleep with your shitty …” I trail off, seeing a figure in the foggy mirror, stopping me in my tracks.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
My gaze flicks up to meet a pair of frosty green eyes staring back at me unflinchingly in the doorway. Gwen stands there, her arms folded over her chest.
And she’s none too pleased with what I’ve done.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
HER
For a moment, Damon’s face mirrors the look of a child caught red-handed with their hand in the cookie jar.
But as his demeanor shifts, he adopts the smugness of a cat showing off its latest catch.
