Slow Burn(55)
For several seconds, I only felt siding. Where was it? Was I feeling in the wrong direction?
And then my fingers touched the cold smoothness of the door. I found the knob and threw myself inside.
Griffin caught me just inside the door.
I knew it was him because I could smell him. I wanted to hold him and beg him never to leave me alone again, but I figured it would be a bad idea to talk. So I didn’t say anything.
He took my hand, gripping it tightly.
We started up the steps to the upper level of the house.
To me, our footfalls were abominably loud, echoing through the garage. But I don’t know if they were in actuality. My own breath also sounded as loud as a steam engine to me.
Griffin tugged me close to him when he opened the door at the top of the stairs.
It creaked as it swung out.
I held my breath, waiting for the Op Wraith guys to jump out at us.
But everything was silent and dark.
We stepped out into the kitchen, which was where the steps from the garage came up. The sky outside was starting to lighten, and enough light came in through the windows that we could see the familiar outlines of the inside of Stacey’s and Jack’s house.
The kitchen counter was cluttered with liquor bottles and glasses. The blender was still out, sticky remnants of some sweet concoction stuck to the inside of the glass. The sink was cluttered full of dirty dishes.
I felt Griffin’s hand pull on mine.
We walked into the living room.
The couches hadn’t been moved back yet. They were still pushed up against the wall, and the wide dance floor that Stacey and I had taken advantage of yawned before us, gray and empty. The stereo was dark and silent, a hulking shadow against the far wall. Its “on” button didn’t even blink. Griffin had turned off the electricity.
I turned to the hallway where the bedroom was.
Griffin yanked on me, trying to move me away.
But not before I saw it.
There was one tiny hand sticking out of the hallway, illuminated by the light through the window, white skin glowing. I could see that the fingernails were painted.
I made an involuntary peep, and Griffin tugged me against him, his hand letting go of mine to cover my mouth.
That hand belonged to Stacey.
Her nails had been painted.
Why was she lying in the hallway like that? She wouldn’t have fallen asleep there, not with her hand sticking out. She wouldn’t have voluntarily lain down in the hallway.
My eyes were pricking.
No.
I had to see.
I wrestled with Griffin, but he held me tight.
No. Not Stacey.
He walked with me, moving us both closer.
With each step, the hallway was easier to see.
I saw more of her arm. I saw her shoulder. I saw her red hair, scattered backwards. I saw her forehead. Her eyes—wide open, glassy, staring at the ceiling. And then I saw her throat.
Bloody, messy, gory, exploded, destroyed—
I buried my face in Griffin’s chest.
One of his hands went around me. The other held out his gun.
My gun. I was pressing it into Griffin. And the safety was off.
I straightened. I didn’t have time to think about Stacey, did I? I squeezed my eyes shut, got a better grip on my gun, and I turned around to look again.
Stacey was lying on the floor, shot through the throat.
Jack was behind her, slumped over lifelessly. I couldn’t see where he’d been shot, but I could tell he was dead just looking at him.
The scene was too real. The colors were too saturated. And the fact that I could look at it without losing it—
Maybe it was better not to think about that.
There was a noise. A muffled noise, like pulling the cork out of a wine bottle.
Griffin gasped.
I turned to look at him.
His hand was at his shoulder. Blood was pouring out of it.
I screamed.
And then I raised my gun, searching for movement.
And when I saw it, in the kitchen, just a blur of black coming for us, I pulled the trigger.
Chapter Ten
My bullet splintered into the wall of the living room. It hadn’t hit anything.