Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I sit up, and pain shoots through my head and pounds at my temples. Blood mixes with rainwater in my mouth, and I roll onto my palms to vomit.
That’s when I see her.
My beautiful Belle.
Lying skewed on the wet concrete, her dress is hitched up around her waist. Her head is turned and her half-open eyes stare lifelessly at me.
It takes a moment to register.
The roar that leaves me is desperate and violent, rushing out of me and dying on the tail of a flash of lightning through the stormy clouds.
Long nails of rain pelt from the night sky, drenching me as I kneel on the wet road with Belle in my arms, her body limp, her arms swinging lifelessly. I hold her to me. Blood mixes with the rain on her skin and swirls down her throat before disappearing onto the road.
I don’t know how long I lay there with her because time has stopped. All I know is that the rain keeps coming down hard, but I won’t leave her. I cry and scream, a part of me dying on the roadside with her.
Finally, a pair of headlights cut into the darkness and come to a stop only a few yards away. The door opens, and my uncle gets out. Rushing over to me, he looks down at Belle in my arms.
“Dammit, son,” he cries. “What have you done?”
The court is at full capacity.
The trial is a media sensation, and outside the crowd is hungry for blood.
My blood.
The press is having a field day with clickbait headlines like The Beautiful Teenager Brutally Murdered by The Weirdo Next Door and Beautiful Belle and the Brutal Beast.
Before I even step inside this courtroom, I’ve already been found guilty by the court of public opinion.
Now, I’m in the witness box wearing a suit that is too tight and shoes that are too small.
After days of witness testimony and forensic demonstrations, the court has heard how I am a manic depressive with violent tendencies who raped and murdered the girl next door. They’ve heard about my obsession with Belle, how I kidnapped her when she rejected my advances, and took her to the abandoned theater, where I violated her before beating her to death.
My wounds—a concussion and a fractured skull that required seven stitches—are never questioned. Instead, they’re used as evidence against me—proof that Belle fought for her life before I overpowered her.
I plead my innocence, but I can’t give them an accurate account of what happened because I can’t remember. One moment, we were walking in the rain together, laughing as the rain began to fall harder and then… nothing.
“And do you deny that the semen found in the victim the night of her murder was yours? That you attacked her so violently during the rape that you made her bleed.”
“No, no, we were together. Yes, but it was our first time—”
“And for your first time you lost control and tore her apart? I beg you, please, Mr. Salvatore. You heard the forensic evidence. The rape kit showed bruising and vaginal bleeding not consistent with a first time, but with a violent and—”
“Stop!” I cry because I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of Belle and the pain they say she went through. With a rush, I stand, and a couple of ladies in the jury look physically afraid. But I can’t help it. The pain is too much, and I need it to end.
The prosecutor looks pleased with himself. “That’s all, Mr. Salvatore, you are excused.”
It takes the jury less than an hour to decide.
My lawyer tells me it can be a good sign that this case may get thrown out.
But even he doesn’t believe his lie.
We are all told to rise, and I shoot a frightened look across to Uncle Frankie. My father declined to attend any of the trial, but Frankie has been with me every step of the way. He tries to hide his concern but fails, his furrowed brow a dead giveaway.
I’m scared.
The judge clears his throat and doesn’t waste time handing down the jury’s verdict.
“Ares Salvatore, the jury of your peers finds you guilty of the charge of murder in the first degree.”
His words tear through me like a bullet, but I don’t react. I’m a quick learner. There are so many cameras on me, any wrong facial expression, and they’ll use it against me. But the horror taking place inside me is violent and terrifying. I don’t have a chance to catch a breath before the judge looks over the piece of paper at me. “And for this, I sentence you to death.”
ARES
Five Years Ago—Somewhere near Jacksonville, Florida
There are three names on the list.
Two are already crossed off, and I’m about to cross off the third. Metaphorically, of course. Because there is no actual list, just three names tucked away in my brain since I learned them. Three names seared into my memory and tormenting me with every second I draw in a breath.