Page 8 of Vicious Hearts
But I believe he's holding something back. Something important.
He cannot appeal unless he's declared legally sane, at which point he could instruct an attorney and demand a retrial. He's too unwell, though, and he's not getting any better.
The murder investigation needs to start from scratch. The whole thing stinks.
Now the real Dollmaker has come for me. I get it—he's gonna murder me in the hope that the appeal will peter out if I'm not there to drive it.
I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die–
Wait.
In theory, I know how to get out of zip ties. Leo told me, but I've never seen it done.
Pull it as tight as possible first.I clamp my teeth around the loose end of the tie on my wrists, dragging it through the locking mechanism until the plastic bites into my skin. I raise my arms above my head and pull them down hard, winging out my elbows and pulling my shoulder blades together. Pain sears through my wrists, but the zip tie does not break.
Try again.
I keep trying, barely noticing my tears. Whether I'm crying with pain or fear, I don't know, but I have to keep at it. He could come back any minute.
I pound my clasped hands against my hip bone, and the zip tie breaks neatly. A few half-squats make short work of the binding at my ankles, and I'm away, sprinting for the road.
I don't look behind me. I'm terrified I can hear his breathing, but it's just my own.
I hurl myself into the bushes at the edge of the verge and lie still, trying not to pass out again. My head is in agony, blood still running down my neck.
Incredibly, my phone is still in my pocket. Why the hell didn't he take it?
I dial 911, my hands shaking. I can't tell the operator where I am, but she says an ambulance will be able to find me if I get out from under the hedge.
I roll into the light just as unconsciousness settles over me, smothering my thoughts.
I don't want to die.
Not yet.
Not ready.
Not
ready
to
go.
2
The Dollmaker
Ican’t believe she’s not there.
It doesn’t matter how many times I look. Open the trunk, close it, open it again, and the outcome is the same. Dead space where there should be Dead Roxanne.
Dead Roxanne isn’t the same as Living Roxanne. The living one has thoughts, plans, and knowledge, but the dead one is nothing.
No, I’m wrong. Dead islessthan nothing, especially if no one identifies your body. Then you’re just a rotting hunk of meat, returning to dust over time. Unmourned. It’s the better way—the natural order, untarnished by mawkish notions of love and grief. And if you’re weak enough to be overpowered by someone like me, you deserve everything you get.
Nature makes no concessions. There are no participation trophies, no marks for trying your fucking best. If you’re not intelligent, fast, or strong, you’ll die, so you should. Some things—and some people—exist only to give the best of us something to trample on our way to the top of the pile.
