“You’re not a man,” I wheeze, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. “Vincent and my daddy are men. They cherish the love of their women. They would never hurt those they love. I feel sorry for you, Eric. You threw away something good because you’re too immature to be happy with what you have.”
That really pisses him off, like majorly, and he grabs my hair, shoving his face into mine.
“I’m not gonna kill you, Sissy. No, what I’m going to do with a stuck up little bitch like you will make you wish you’d never opened your filthy mouth. And I’m really going to enjoy it,” he says, his voice becoming a sing song of eerie delight.
My head is throbbing so badly I can’t follow his movements that well, but I notice two things. One, the front door is slightly ajar—thank you, Jesus—which must mean Bee got out safely. Two, Eric has put the gun down on the little side table beside the sofa and is coming my way holding what I recognize as the butcher’s knife from my kitchen.
“No…”
There are a lot of ways to kill a person, and me being me, I’ve broken down the ways to die in a morbid little list of least favorite to somewhat bearable.
Number one on my list of ‘please don’t let me die like this’ is definitely death by knife. Hands down. I’d rather be gut shot than stabbed or sliced to death, and since Bee, Eric, and myself played this game a couple of years ago, he knows that I am deathly afraid of knives.
“I’m gonna ruin that pretty little smile of yours and make you so ugly no man will ever look at you again.”
“Get away from me!” I yell when he grabs my hair and wrenches my head back at a painful angle.
The knife whispers over my cheek, a teasing caress that makes my skin crawl and pale.
“Please. Please don’t do this. I don’t deserve this,” I sob, crying now. “You’re not this guy.”
That’s such a lie. Obviously Eric is the guy; he’s just been hiding the maniac for years and no one knew it.
The knife twists at my hairline, skimming over me with a hiss that I feel more than hear, and a small trickle of warmth dribbles down the side of my face.
“Why couldn’t you just stay out of it?” he asks mournfully, looking like the old Eric for a beat. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody. All I wanted was her and my job, that’s all.”
No, I think, feeling tears stream freely down my cheeks, you wanted to be in control of everything. You had what you wanted and you weren’t satisfied.
Vincent had been. No matter how goofy or clumsy or just plain weird I’d been at times, he’d been satisfied just to have me. Shit.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper brokenly, begging him with my eyes for mercy.
I’m almost hopeful at this stage, which is so stupid because I should know not to hope for anything, when he tightens his grip and rips my head back, raising the knife menacingly.
I close my eyes tightly, holding my breath, when a shot rings out, deafening me, causing me to bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. The hand holding my hair slackens, and I open my eyes just as a clatter hits the floor.
Eric is frozen above me, his face a picture of horrified shock. He looks down, and I follow his eyes, confused when a bright red flower spreads across his chest, painting his shirt an obscene shade of crimson.
He turns, stepping back, and gasps, his hand extended pleadingly.
“Are you okay? Oh my God, I was so scared. I ran next door and called security and I was so scared but I couldn’t leave you alone and—”
We’re both crying and shaking as Bee frees me from the chair, her trembling body all but collapsing into me as I stand, swaying so badly I know I have a concussion.
“You saved my life.”
“No. You saved mine. I love you, Sis,” she sobs, pulling me out of the apartment and into the hall just as the elevator dings and people start streaming out.
“I love you too,” I breathe, leaning my head into her sweet-smelling neck and letting go.
Chapter Thirty Nine
“Come on, sugar. Open those beautiful peepers for Daddy. Come on, that’s it, let me see those beautiful blue eyes.”
That voice and the familiar words make me smile just before I obey and slowly raise my lids to the sight of my father’s own matching blue eyes gazing down at me with so much love and devotion I feel my own eyes mist over.
He’s been crying, I see, as evidenced by the red rings around his eyes and the slightly pink tinge to the tip of his nose.
“Hey, Daddy,” I rasp, lifting a heavy hand to his stubble-covered cheek. “You been watching The Notebook again, old man?” I tease, swiping clumsily at his tears.