Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Maybe that was a self-preservation thing.
Maybe you could only get so hot before you went ice cold.
I didn't know.
All I knew was I was in the world, but not, at the same time as I made my way into his backyard as I had planned.
He had a nice, sprawling two-acre lot on a dead-end street.
He was practically asking to have someone kill him without anyone around to hear and alert the police.
And because he was a bully, he, like all bullies, thought he was invincible.
No security system.
He didn't even lock his damn door.
I knew that he didn't have a dog because when Letha had once mentioned loving them, he had told her that dogs were filthy and she could never have one.
Never mind that she had her own place, even if being with him meant that she hardly ever got to spend any time there.
And that it was none of his fucking business if she wanted a dog or not.
As soon as I stepped inside, I could hear the shower up above me, making my lips curl up a little evilly as I moved my ballet-flat feet across his quiet home, hoping the stairs didn't squeak enough for it to be heard over the drip of the water and his off-key rendition of some shitty radio song.
Singing.
Without a care in the world.
While Letha was in the ground.
Because of him.
I wasn't even sure if I was actually breathing by the time I closed in on the door to the bathroom, left open so the steam could escape.
The window, luckily, was closed.
I didn't intend for this to be painless.
Letha never got that luxury.
Why should he?
I wanted him to feel what it was like to be helpless, to be at someone else's mercy. I wanted him to hurt.
Then and only then would I end it.
How?
I didn't exactly decide on that.
I planned for it.
I had knives if I needed them.
I had a bag tucked into my back pocket.
And I had a room full of hard surfaces to bang his head against.
I was worried that if I had limited myself to one killing method, that I wouldn't be prepared if the situation went south and I - say - lost my knife. What if I panicked after that and he got the upper hand, and could take me down?
That was not a situation I wanted to find myself in.
So I prepared, but decided that everything that happened between me and this scumbag would be off the cuff, steeped in the knowledge of all my different training classes, but instinctive.
I slowly closed the door behind me, feeling the humid air make my hair under my cap and wig start to sweat. Gross. Uncomfortable. But the least of my worries right then.
The water cut out.
So did my heartbeat.
Then the shower door slid, a hand moved out for a towel.
It felt like forever, but couldn't have been more than a minute or two later when a foot moved out.
Then a torso.
Then the whole upper body.
I had never met him personally.
I had seen pictures though.
And I got it.
I got what she saw in him.
He was older by a decade, age making him all the more attractive, as it only ever seemed to happen with men. He was six-two with a wide forehead, square jaw, light, piercing blue eyes, and dark blond, short-cropped hair.
And in only a towel, I got to see the deep etches of muscles in his shoulders, chest, arms, and stomach.
He was good-looking.
If he approached Letha and promised her the world, she would have believed him. She did, after all, have a father who gave her as much of it as possible. She had no reason to be distrustful.
Me, I had nothing but reasons.
Maybe I should have seen his evil.
Maybe I would have if I had insisted on meeting him like a normal sister would do, instead of hoarding our time together, wanting it just to be the two of us.
Maybe I could have saved her.
"Who the fuck—"
He didn't get the chance to finish that sentence before I charged, striking out with my utter uselessness, my guilt, my shame in being so selfish, so blind, my grief that all of it led to the loss of a life too young.
"Fuck," he hissed when my fist landed to his cheek, whipping his head around like on a lever. I could practically hear the snap of his neck at the unusual angle. "You fucking bitch!" he roared, hands reaching out, going for my throat.
I had prepared for this.
Every one of my classes taught me how to get away from chokeholds.
I'd seen Youtube videos of twelve-year-old girls getting out of them from adult men.
Arms up.
Hands clasped.
Slam down your elbows with all your force into one arm.
Use that second of surprise to strike the throat.
Run.
That was what you were supposed to do after the throat.