Girls always remembered things like that.
Their first kiss.
Their first time.
Only usually, good girls, girls like sweet innocent Trace, gave that first time to their husbands, and only them.
I wondered if she’d be thankful or upset.
I couldn’t find it in my heart to regret what I’d done, because I truly was hanging on to every ounce of love Trace gave me, to get through the night. To do what I had to do.
It was my death row.
My last sentence.
I prayed.
Maybe God truly was that forgiving, that after all the sin I’d committed in my life for my family, in the name of blood—he’d still be gracious enough to protect her while I knew I couldn’t.
The drive was short. As those drives typically are, the one time you want to dally, and all the lights are green and there’s no traffic.
Campus security was high as per my instructions. I unlocked the Space and let myself in. I couldn’t kill him, but there was something else I could do.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Phoenix
The door handle turned. So this was it. I was going to die. I wish I could say I wasn’t terrified. Would it hurt? Would I even feel pain and fear? Or would it be over so fast that I’d just feel nothing but my body finally resting? Nixon walked into the light. He had a garbage bag in one hand and his gun in the other.
“Phoenix.” Nixon said my name slowly, purposefully. Aw shit, he’d come alone. Which meant I was going to get a hell of a lot more than a bullet to the head. Visions of knives, bloody knuckles, and syringes came to mind.
“Nixon.” I couldn’t help the shaking in my voice. I knew what was coming, I wasn’t totally fearless.
“I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth.”
“Never was really good with the whole honesty thing.” I smirked. “I think I’ll take my chances with death.”
“Damn it!” Nixon kicked the table next to me and then with a curse threw it over onto its side, causing dust to explode into the air. “Why is it,” he said, voice strained, “that out of all the shit we’ve been through—now’s the time you’ve decided to develop a conscience?”
I shrugged, trying to act indifferent.
Nixon gripped my shirt and pulled me to my feet then slapped me so hard across the face I felt it all the way down to my toenails. The sting throbbed as he pushed me backward, making the chair that was attached to me twist my arms in such a way that I’m surprised nothing broke.
I’d seen Nixon pissed and I’d seen him calm as hell when he was interrogating, but this side of Nixon? It was nothing short of desperation.
“I can’t,” he finally whispered under his breath. “I’m sorry, Phoenix. I know I promised you, but I can’t.”
With a final shake of his head he walked over to the exposed bathroom in the corner and began grabbing towels. He ran water into a large bucket. Seconds later he was dumping the bucket over my face, and for a second I thought he was going to waterlog me. It took me a few minutes to realize what he was actually doing—cleaning me up.
We in the family had always been strong Catholics, but never in my life had I ever understood the absolute humility of washing of a sinner’s feet—until Nixon began cleaning the wounds on my face.
Words wouldn’t form on my lips as he continued to clean my cuts. He moved to my hands next, wiping the mixture of dirt and blood. He didn’t say anything and I still wasn’t able to talk without losing my shit, so I sat.
Funny, when you’ve hit rock bottom, you never imagine someone may throw you a rope. But that’s what he was doing. Nixon looked into my watery pit of dispair, and rather than killing me inside it, he offered a life raft, one I didn’t deserve.
“So.” Nixon dipped the washcloth into the bucket and wiped my cheek one last time. “Someone will be here tomorrow to…”—he shrugged—“see you.”
“The guys,” I answered, finding my voice.
Nixon didn’t answer. He untied my hands and pulled fresh clothes out of the trash bag, tossing them at my face. “Put these on, then sit back down.”
My hands shook as I slowly peeled the bloody clothes off my body. My movements felt slow and awkward; my wrists hurt like hell after being bound. When my dirty clothes were off, I took a seat on the metal chair and slowly pulled the fresh-smelling hooded sweatshirt over my head. The jeans were another matter entirely. I winced as pain shot through my hands at having to pull the rough material over my exhausted and mangled body. What should have taken me seconds took at least ten minutes, but I hadn’t felt that clean in days.
Nixon pulled a granola bar out of his pocket and handed it to me. What the hell was up his sleeve? Either he was fattening me up before death or he really was a freaking saint. Damn him.