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I turn away and take the final steps to my uncle’s room, my heart rampantly beating, while she wrestles with the bouquet.
“Are you here to see Mr. Torian?” she asks, killing me slowly.
I pause in the doorway, the darkness of the room within reach. “Yes.”
There’s a pause, another torturous, agonizing heartbeat.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, but we’ve been asked by family to take note of visitors. Only immediate relatives and pre-determined friends are allowed to visit.”
The stipulation stinks of my brother. I should’ve known Cole would’ve transformed the hospital ward into a secure location.
I should’ve fucking known. But I didn’t even think about his possible security measures.
My chest hollows.
Richard’s room is here. Right here. And she’s not going to let me step foot inside.
“Please,” I whisper. “I haven’t been able to see him since the accident. I promise I won’t stay long.”
“What’s your name? You might already be on the list.”
I close my eyes and send out a silent prayer. Yes, a fucking prayer…to God… to help me kill someone. The ridiculousness hits me like a violent slap across the face. “I’m not on the list. His family doesn’t know about me.”
My chest restricts. My limbs grow heavy. My heart thunders.
Every part of my body protests, demanding I flee. It takes all my strength to remain in place.
“Are you a friend? A work colleague?”
If I say I’m a colleague and she knows what my uncle does for a living, I’ll never be allowed to step foot inside that room. And being a friend, who isn’t close enough to make the list, seems like a long shot, too.
I need another strategy. Something to pull at her heart strings and worm my way into her trust.
I sniff and pull a handkerchief from my pocket as I delve into the haunted recesses of my mind. I retrieve memories that make my eyes burn. I pull forward images of my mother. I force myself to remember the funeral—the coffin, the flowers, the sobs from family and friends. I bathe myself in devastation and let the pain resurface, all in an effort to sell my story.
Then I glance over my shoulder and meet her gaze through drenched eyes. “I’m his mistress.”
She stares at me with trepidation, her lips parting in shock. She shifts the flowers from one arm to the next, cradling them like a child in her silent contemplation.
She’s older than I am. I guess in her mid-forties. Much closer to my uncle’s age than I am, and I hope like hell she doesn’t notice through my heavy make-up.
“Please.” I blow my nose and force myself to relive the grief of years gone by. I cling tight to the horror, squeezing every inch of torment from those memories until a single tear treks down my cheek. “I only want a few minutes with him. Just in case…”
She winces, reaffirming that his situation is still dire.
“Please.”
She nods, retreating a step, then two. “Okay.” She continues walking backward toward the nurses’ station. “But don’t take too long.”
Gratitude overwhelms me, suffocating me with its giddy tidal wave.
“Thank you.” I dab at the moisture on my cheeks and pretend it takes all my strength to drag my feet forward to face a heartbreaking goodbye. I keep my focus straight ahead, away from the bed. Then I turn and close the door behind me, shoving the handkerchief in my pocket as the darkness of the room inches its way into my marrow.
I cling to the handle for long heartbeats and give myself a mental pep talk.
I’m not going to fail despite the attention I’ve drawn.
I’m not going to get caught even though I can feel the noose tightening around my neck, cutting off my air.
I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.
I switch my mindset, moving from relief to anger. To pain.
I relive Richard’s lingering stare. His compliments. The unwanted touches. I remember that night and all the things he took from me. I shove every ounce of weakness deep down to the pit of my stomach and become my father’s daughter.
The criminal.
A murderer.
I become emboldened. Strong. Un-fucking-beatable. Then I turn and face my demons.
Richard lies lifeless, i
His chest rises and falls. Slow and steady.
My feet move of their own accord, bringing me closer to Satan, until I’m stopped at the foot of the bed. I peer down at him and smile at how our positions have changed.
For a long time, he was the one with horror in his belly and violence in his soul, while I lay meek and vulnerable, unable to defend myself.
I gain the briefest insight into his sick perversion as I stand there. I acknowledge the rush of power. The tingle of adrenaline. I breathe in the approaching victory and square my shoulders against the unwanted niggle of building sins.
“Hello, Uncle.” My lips kick as I curl every syllable around my tongue.
The more I stare, the more invigorated I become. My breathing quickens. My nerves tingle.
“It’s been a long time since we last spoke.” I lean over and swipe at the wrinkles in the bedding near his feet. “I’ve learned a lot about you since your accident.”
I watch for the slightest flicker in his features. I’d give anything to know he can hear me. To have just one sign of acknowledgement.
But I get nothing. Not even a twitch.
I sigh and glance around the room, taking in the monitoring equipment, the cards on the bedside table, the Bible.
I roll my eyes.
Whoever thought religion could save this man had delusions beyond my comprehension. Nothing can save him. Not in this life or the next.
I walk around the bed and take a seat on the chair at his side.
Death coats my skin, tickling the back of my neck. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation.
Good and evil.
Right and wrong.
I have two options. Only two. And both revolve around the syringes taped to my wrist beneath my jacket.
The potassium chloride overdose will mimic a heart attack and end his life. There will be no injuries to investigate or sign of foul play. The only thing left behind will be an elevated level of potassium in his bloodstream—the same elevation that would be present with a legitimate heart attack.
The first option is to inject into the IV line. The results will be fast, and I’ll have mere seconds before the magic begins and the monitors alert nursing staff.
The alternative is to inject into the IV bag and walk away without hearing any bells and whistles. I’d have time to escape the ward before his heart started to react.
I’d also be unsure whether I succeeded or failed. And that success is something I crave.
“I want it to be quick,” I whisper. “Not because you don’t deserve to suffer. It’s because I want to be here when you die.”
But the price of fulfilment could come at the cost of a prison sentence. And I’m not willing to let him affect my future like he has my past.
I stand and grab a pair of disposable gloves from the box on the wall. I quickly cover both hands, then unfasten the syringes from my wrists, placing one in my pocket for easy access.
My heart pounds in my throat. My tongue swells. My fingers tremble.
It’s not fear.
No, that weakness is long gone.