Blood in the Water(83)

“You like it, don’t you, bitch? You want me to fuck you?”

“No!”

“Liar.” He pinched the nipple viciously, trying to startle a cry from her, but she bit the inside of her cheek. “You’ve been aching for it, since we first met. Sluts can’t help themselves.” With a butcher’s precision, he dragged the knife over her limbs, tracing the twisting path of her veins, as though considering cutting them open.

And then his hands were everywhere—sliding along the bared length of her stomach, slipping over her thighs, and nauseatingly, between her legs.

Jane stifled a repulsed groan. Her skin was crawling, and her head spun.

She had to put up with this just a bit longer. If he got lost in violating her, she could use the gun before he had the chance to slit her throat. Being raped was a horrifying prospect, but she’d walk away with her life—or what was left of it, anyway.

“Tell me you’re sorry. Admit your love for me, say you only want to be with me.” He pushed his fingers into her dry vagina, knocking a whimper from her throat.

And then a gun clicked.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

Two feet away stood Byron Beauregard, looking more like an avenging angel than a mobster. He pointed the gun at Valentine’s head.

With a snarl, Valentine lifted the blade, and Jane snatched up the syringe and plunged it into the side of his neck. The knife clattered to the ground, and Byron kicked it away from him.

“No, it’s not…supposed to be like this.” Valentine slammed a hand against the wound and fell to the floor as the first wave of euphoria hit him. Jane had never done the drug herself, but she was familiar with the effects from her work. “I kill you, not the other way arou….” His words were slurred, and his eyes were hooded.

“Did he rape you?” Byron kept the gun trained on Valentine.

“Not yet, though it was next on his agenda.” Jane pulled on her shirt and quickly buttoned it.

Later, she’d make sense of all this and how she felt about it. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart.

“What about Brady? Is she okay?”

“Yes, she’s in the closet, listening to a movie with the volume up high. He scared her to death, but didn’t touch her.”

“Good.”

Her brain was starting to work again. “Don’t think I’m not glad to see you, Byron, but why are you here?”

“I’m a liar darlin’, and I couldn’t let you do this. So I bided my time, waitin’ from a distance, until it was safe to approach.”

Jane supposed she should be angry he’d intervened, but he’d saved her from being further molested by Valentine.

“Step away from him, Jane. His day of reckonin’ has arrived.”

“Yes, it has, but I’m going to be the one to pass judgment.” She pulled her pistol from beneath the towels.

Jane glanced at Valentine, who was flailing on the ground. He wasn’t much of a threat at the moment. She cocked the gun.

“Jane, don’t do it—you don’t want to be like me. You deserve better. One more death on my tally won’t mean a damn thing, especially a fuckin’ serial killer, but it’ll change your world and not for the better.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me and I’ll administer a little down-home justice.”

Byron was offering her absolution, a chance to walk away with somewhat of a clear conscience. Byron would “stain” himself with yet another murder and Jane could pretend to be in the dark about it, but she couldn’t let him bear the burden alone.

Before Byron could talk her out of it, Jane shot Valentine in the chest—twice. The sound was so sharp, her eardrums ached. He coughed up blood and then flopped to the floor.

“Jane, no!”

She stood in stunned silence as Valentine bled out. His blood slipped into the cracks and crevices between the tile, spreading out, staining everything.

Oh, my God. I really did it. She’d killed a man, committed premeditated murder—Murder One according to the penal code.

Muttering a curse, Byron turned and walked away.

She was stunned, but Jane couldn’t summon the will to be sorry for her crime. Valentine had gotten exactly what he deserved.

On quivering legs, she joined Byron in the living room. He stood with his arms folded over his chest, his head bowed.

“Byron, I think we should talk.”

“No time. You need to call the police, to keep up the ruse. Your neighbors might’ve called already.”

“Oh, yes, right.” Automatically, she scooped up the phone from the coffee table. Right now, none of this felt quite real. While Byron watched, she made the phone call. Jane was on autopilot as she relayed the facts to the 911 operator.