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“I’m good,” I whisper. Then louder, “Just light-headed from the exercise.”
“You need food.” He scrutinizes me, reading me, and my cheeks heat under his surveillance. Under my guilt.
I step back. “I need to get home.”
“No.” He follows, matching me step for step. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I glance back at the television, finding the breaking news replaced with some sort of telenovela. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe I’m losing my ever-loving mind.
“Just leave me alone.” I run, sprint, ditching him somewhere along the way.
I don’t stop. I reach the end of the block, then the next, and the next. I don’t glance at the cars that blare their horns as I cross numerous streets. I don’t pause. Yet, I can’t outrun the nightmare clipping at my heels.
I don’t kill people. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. No matter how vile or disgusting a criminal’s actions are, I always make the punishment singular. I contain the pain to the guilty party. Because once that life is snuffed, an intricate web of people become affected.
The parents who live for their only son are devastated. Those nieces and nephews who dote on their uncle are heartbroken. The i
I can’t be the person who inflicts that pain.
Maybe it’s already too late.
Maybe I already am a murderer.
Fuck. I should’ve dug deeper into my research on Dan. There could’ve been a heart condition. An allergy to Rohypnol. Hell. He could’ve choked or had trouble breathing after I fled.
Oh, God, I’m going to throw up.
I push my legs even harder, reaching the corner of my building with shaky thighs, my chest heaving, and there he is, leaning against a black Chevrolet parked in the loading zone.
A sexy car for a sexy son-of-a-bitch.
“What the hell is going on?” He strides toward me, a thick black sweater now hugging his upper body.
“Stop following me.” I sniff, my nose leaking from the vigorous exercise. “Get out of here.”
“You took off after saying you were light-headed. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Clearly, you’re not.”
“Clearly?” I swipe at my stupid nose with my wrist.
He moves in front of me, his gaze softer, on the verge of kindness. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
I straighten and blink through his ignorance. “You’re an idiot.” I won’t cry over Dan. I refuse. My nose tingles due to exertion. My eyes burn because…damned if I know, but it isn’t from building tears.
I sidestep and hustle for the front doors, entering the pin code through blurry vision. He’s at my back before I’m inside, and I no longer have the strength to tell him to leave.
“At least let me call someone. A friend. Or family.”
A harsh laugh escapes my lips. There is nobody here for me. No friends. No family. Nobody and no one at all. Not a single soul.
I make it to the elevator and press the button. The doors open, and he follows me inside, always following, always there.
I slump into the corner, my arms hugging my chest.
“Give me your phone.” The stranger holds out a hand while he presses the button for my floor with the other. “I’ll call someone to come look after you.”
I ignore him, too focused on Dan’s face as it takes over my mind. The snide smile, the laugh, the voice. The feel of his ribs breaking beneath my fist. The crack of his jaw. The sound of his muffled shouts.
I press a hand to my mouth and the other to the elevator wall to hold myself upright. The floor jolts to a stop, and bile rushes up my throat, demanding to be free.
Please let me make it to the bathroom.
I lunge for the doors, pull them apart, and sprint for my apartment. I’m blinded by horrible images as I release deadbolts and enter the pin code. Dan’s hair, his eyes, his mouth. I can see it all.
What’s your name, bitch?
I shove inside my apartment, dump my backpack, and rush to the toilet. There’s barely enough time to collapse to my knees before the contents of my stomach leave me in a heaving purge.
Through the rise of bile and partly digested toast, the face of a murdered man stares back at me. Haunting me.
I want to know what to whisper in your ear when I’m raping you raw.
I grip the toilet, my stomach convulsing over and over and over again until there’s nothing left to give.
“Are you still going to tell me nothing’s wrong?”
That voice pulls me from the panic, stripping away the memories of one man and replacing them with another. I wipe a hand across my mouth and glance over my shoulder, finding him leaning against the doorway.
“Get out.” I push to shaky feet, flush my breakfast, and reach for the cabinet to pull out my toothbrush and paste.
“Did you know the guy?”
I rinse my mouth with water, load up my brush, and begin scrubbing. “Leave.” I scour the vomit from my mouth, cleaning my tongue and teeth and everywhere in between.
“The guy on the television,” he clarifies. “The senator’s son.”
No, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger, even after I killed him. I grasp the counter and focus on my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale, my eyes wild, with strands of hair stuck to the sweat on my cheeks.
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Shut up.” My head throbs with each beat of my pulse. I can’t think. It hurts to breathe. I start for the door, needing space, needing room. I try to push by him, and he doesn’t budge. “Get out of my way.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he shoves from the frame, stands tall, and stares me down.
“I said, move.”
He squares his jaw, preparing for a fight I’m more than willing to give. I have to get this toxic sludge out of my system, and thrusting it out is the only way I know how.
I cock my fist and swing, already anticipating the painful contact that never comes. He ducks, weaves, and steps back in a flash of movement that makes my head spin. I swing again and again, each attack thwarted by his quick reflexes.
I keep advancing, keep punching, keep trying to distract myself from reality.
I pounce forward. Jab. Cross. Hook. My knuckles graze his chin. Almost impact.
His eyes narrow and that harsh face hardens. “Enough.”
I can’t stop. My arms have a mind of their own. I can’t control my thoughts. Not the blinding flashbacks of what I did to Dan, or the snapshots of what he’d done to other women.
I swing again, and this time the ferocious intruder grabs my wrist, wrenching it down and twisting. I’m spun in a circle until my back is plastered against his front, his other arm smothering my chest. He holds me in place, trapping me while I hyperventilate.
“I said, enough,” he growls in my ear.
I whimper and sag against him, my heavy breathing lessening in the long, silent moments he holds me.
“Was he your lover?”
“What?” I struggle to break free and fail. “No. He was a disgusting excuse for a man who deserved to die long ago.”
The truth shocks me. But it is the truth.
“Then why the breakdown?”
“It isn’t a breakdown.” Now I’m lying, because the reality is, I’m scared. I’m terrified of being sent to prison. Not because of what could happen to me once trapped inside. I’m petrified I’ll die behind bars while the person who destroyed my family runs free.
I can’t fail them.
I refuse.
“So, storming out of boxing class, ru