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First thing in the morning, I’ll drive up to Montana to find my brother and ask for his help.
I can only hope he doesn’t blow my head off the second I set foot on his property.
Chapter Thirteen
June
“Everything’s going to be fine. Adrian is going to come back, and everything is going to be fine. For all I know, I could be home this time tomorrow night. He’ll walk through that door any minute now, and he’ll tell me this nightmare is over. I’ll be on my merry way, back in Florida, where things make sense. Which is saying something, since there’s so much about Florida that makes no sense,” I whisper.
No clue why I’m whispering to myself, but it feels appropriate.
All right, maybe I’m not being completely fair as I pace the living room, still holding the gun ages after he left on his little errand. I’m afraid to put it down. What if somebody comes barging in here and I don’t have time to pick it up again? Knowing me, I would end up fumbling it somehow and the psycho killer sent to end my life would pick it up, thank me for the help, and blow my head off.
Nope. It’s a better idea to hold on to it.
He’s going to come back. Any minute now, he’ll come strolling through the door. He’ll probably laugh at me for being so scared, but I can handle that so long as he does come back and tells me I’m safe now.
Even if it means I’d have to say goodbye to him. That was always the way this was supposed to end, though. It’s a total accident that we even got together in the first place. It’s been fun in some ways, but it’s going to end. Maybe I’ll send him a thank-you card sometime in the future. Do they make “thanks for taking my virginity and also saving my life” cards? If not, I’ll come up with something.
I swear, time has never moved as slowly as it is tonight. I’ve probably logged a couple of miles across the living room by the time headlights sweep across the front window, squeezing through the narrow openings between the blinds. No big surprise when my heart leaps into my throat and lodges itself somewhere behind my tongue. Is this Adrian? Or is it somebody sent to murder me? I guess if somebody was trying to sneak in here, they would turn off their headlights, right? Look at me, grasping at straws, trying to comfort myself.
“Please, don’t make me use this. Please, don’t make me use this.” I’m about to choke on my dread as I raise the gun, whimpering, while footsteps tap on the front steps. It’s probably not a good thing that my hands keep shaking. I’m not an expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure shaking is bad.
“June, it’s me.”
Oh, thank God. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved in all my life. The sound of Adrian’s voice on the other side of the door might as well be the sound of angels singing. “It’s about time you got back! I was worried sick and you could have called or—”
The sight of him as he enters the house makes me forget the half-hearted scolding I was about to give. That’s what the sight of blood does to me, and he is basically covered in it. It makes his shirt cling to his chest, sort of like a contestant in a very high-stakes wet T-shirt contest. It’s on his pants, too, the stains creating a sheen on the black fabric.
But it’s the wild, almost unhinged look in his eyes that gives me the same shaky, sick feeling I got when he handed me the gun. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
“I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t give him a chance.” The black gloves he took with him are in his back pocket again, hanging out far enough that I can see the blood smeared on them too. I guess there’s no point in asking how Victor is doing.
This man just killed someone. I can smell the blood from across the room. That should scare me, shouldn’t it? I should be grossed out, repulsed by him, not to mention afraid. I remember Victor—he was not a little guy. But Adrian is unscathed.
What could he do to me if he wanted to? What couldn’t he do?
It doesn’t matter how many times I ask myself that question. I can’t bring myself to be afraid of him. He’s more than some heartless, efficient killing machine, even if that’s what he wants to believe he is. Maybe I’m being naive, but that’s what my gut tells me, and that’s all I have to go on.
He runs his hands through his hair, eyes blazing with a fire I’ve never seen in him before. Not even when he got us out of that burning building. “He’s finished. We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“Did you torture him?” He must have, with all that blood. “I mean,” I add while he stares at me like I sprouted a second head, “if you just shot him, you wouldn’t have all this blood on you, right? You have to have gotten up close and personal. Did he beg for his life? Did you play cat and mouse games with him and let him think he would live?”
His jaw is hanging open by the time I’m finished. “I’ve always heard still waters run deep, but this is ridiculous. Are you seriously asking me to describe what happened tonight?”
“I’m not asking for every gory detail,” I huff. “I just want to know. Did he suffer? I had plenty of time here to imagine him suffering.”
“Yes. He suffered.” That’s as much as he’ll tell me before going to the bedroom. I can’t help but follow him—there are still so many questions I want answered.
“Don’t forget, he tried to kill me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to know he paid for it.”
“Don’t worry. He paid.” He peels off his shirt, and now I can see the places where the blood soaked through onto his skin and has started to dry in an ugly rust color. “I’m getting in the shower.”
Okay, then. We don’t feel like chatting after committing murder. I’ll have to make a note of that—after all, I might want to write a book about a murderer someday. He’s giving me all kinds of insider knowledge.
He killed someone tonight. I wonder how he must feel. Of course, asking would get me nowhere. He clearly would like to pretend he doesn’t feel anything.
The question is, how do I feel about it? My body is buzzing, humming with energy, and I don’t understand why. I should be panicking. I literally saw the evidence of what he’s capable of all over his clothes. But this isn’t panic.
