Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
It's dark down here, just as black as it is upstairs. I blink, still trying to adjust to it, my eyes drawn to the living room when I reach the first floor. All at once the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as I nearly crumble.
There's blood everywhere. I can hardly make it out in the darkness, a lake of oozing black on the floor, a body floating in the center of it, something sticking straight out of his chest. A knife.
John.
Dead.
I cry out before I can stop myself. Naz's arms encircle me from behind, his hand reaching up, his palm pressing into my neck as strong fingers grasp my chin, forcing me to look away from the mess. His breath fans against me as he whispers, "Don't."
Don't look.
Don't think.
Don't breathe.
Don't.
I chant it in my head, tears streaking my cheeks as he leads me right out the front door. His car is parked nearby. We don't pass another living soul, and I'm grateful for it.
Something tells me a witness tonight won't live to see tomorrow.
I cry to myself the whole way to Brooklyn, my body shaking and teeth chattering. I clench my jaw to keep from making any noise. Bile burns my chest, my throat, scorching my insides, sending me up in flames. I nearly lose it a few times in the car, and Naz says nothing, his gloved hand reaching over and grasping the back of my neck. His touch is firm as his fingers knead the muscles. It eases my headache and calms the fire raging inside of me, but I only cry harder.
Why does his touch affect me this way?
Those vengeful hands killed a man tonight, they took the life of another, and yet they soothe me like nothing ever has before.
I hate myself for it.
When we get to the house, he presses a button on the visor, the garage door opening. He pulls the car in before closing the door again, cutting the engine. He sits there, staring straight out the windshield, his voice detached. "I should kill you."
Despite my attempt to stay silent, I whimper at those words.
"I should wrap my hands around your neck and steal your last breath," he says. "Bleed you dry, drain you of every last drop of that filthy Rita blood. You drugged me… betrayed me… so you could run off, put yourself at risk. You lied to me, when I've done nothing… nothing… to hurt you!"
His voice raises, anger seeping into the words.
"I should kill you," he says again, opening his door. "I fucking wish I had it in me to do it."
He steps out, slamming the car door behind him, and heads straight inside without waiting for me. I break down as soon as he's gone, sobbing loud and hard, gasping as I try to catch my breath. It rushes out of me, purging like a flood, as the tears fall and my chest caves in until there's nothing left inside of me.
Nothing at all.
I fold into myself, curling up on the seat, getting lost in the darkness, in the silence, until my eyes dry on their own and my muscles stop fighting the stiffness, succumbing to the anguish.
An hour passes.
Or two.
Maybe it's even three.
I feel like I've been beaten to a pulp, my bones brittle and on the verge of shattering when I finally step out of the car.
I go inside.
There are no lights on in the house, and I don't hear him, but I seem to know instinctively he's in the den. He always is. I consider going upstairs, going somewhere else, anywhere else, but I'm weak.
I'm weak, and I'm scared, but I'm not a coward. I may have Rita blood in me, but that's not all I am. I'm that man's daughter, but I'm not him. And maybe that makes me stronger than I think.
I stroll that way and peer in. I don't find him at his desk, as I expect. He's sitting on the couch, his head down, cradled in his hands, the gloves discarded on the cushion beside him, lying with a small black gun. I've never seen it before, never even knew he owned a gun. Exhausted, and terrified, I slink to the floor right there in the open doorway, leaning back against the doorframe.
I'm at his mercy now.
"How did you know?" My voice is scratchy, but it surprisingly still works. "How did you find me?"
"Your phone."
I stare at him in the darkness. "My phone?"
"I tracked your phone. I knew it was only a matter of time before you led me right to them."
"You used me." I don't know why that stings so much, but it stirs up my guilt, like it's my fault this all happened. "You used me to find them."
"I tried not to involve you," he says. "I did everything I could not to drag you into it."
"How can you say that?"
"Because it's true." The hard edge, the hint of anger, is back in his voice, as he raises his head to look at me. "It would've been so simple to force you to lead me to your mother, and it would've been easy to get rid of both of you. I could've ended this in a day. But then I saw you, I watched you, and I realized…"
"Realized what?"
"That you had no idea who you were," he says. "You had no idea where you came from. And I shouldn't have cared… it shouldn't have mattered… but you reminded me of someone else, someone who died because of who her father was."
"That's why you couldn't kill me," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I remind you of her."
"No, I couldn't hurt you because you remind me of her," he says. "I would've still killed you… but you would've never seen it coming. You wouldn't have suffered, not like she did. So I did everything I could not to involve you, so you never would've known. I had Santino steal your school files, I followed you, I searched addresses, but your mother was smart. Had you not moved here, had you not walked into Santino's classroom, looking exactly like a woman we all used to know, I probably never would've even caught her trail."