He smiles weakly. Moves his lips and staggers out a single-word question. “Deanna?”

She blinks back tears through a broken smile. “She’s in jail, sweetie.”

He frowns, a thousand questions asked through his eyes, his mouth struggling to work. “She was arrested, J. She confessed. You might not remember but she tried to…” She swallows. “She stabbed you.”

He shakes his head roughly, a gesture that has all three women springing forward, their hands holding him still. “Please stop talking to him,” the first nurse snaps. “We need to keep him stable.”

Lily nods, breaking a hand from his to wipe at her eyes. He glares at her, a grimace breaking into a sound as he lifts his head from the pillow. “Simon,” he hisses. “It was Simon.”

Four short, tiny words. The machine next to him flares to life, the numbers on it jumping erratically, and his head rolls to the side, his eyes still open, still stuck on Lily, a tortured plea that doesn’t stop as a vessel in his brain reopens, flooding the area with blood, his mental system shutting down in protection mode. Squeezing his limp palm tightly, she looks at him in panic.

CHAPTER 82

Present

I AM NOT a normal individual. I’ve known that for quite some time. And tonight, with my nerves humming, my worry over Jeremy cresting, my night demons kicking, I calm myself the only way I know how: by planning. And my plans align in agreement that it costs at least ten bucks to properly kill someone. I’ve determined that after wandering up and down the eight rows of the Quik Mart. I stand by the convenience store’s front window and watch my building.

There are four good options on the shelves of this store, my calculator of death rattling up totals in my head like jackpots.

Zip ties, one gallon of gas, and a lighter. Total: $8.52 + tax Burn, baby, burn.

Or zip ties, one gallon of antifreeze, and a funnel. Total: $9.32 + tax Poison, baby, poison

Or zip ties, a razor, and (optional) aspirin. Total: $9.29 + tax Bleed, baby, bleed

Or duct tape and plastic bags. Total $7.98 + tax Choke, baby, choke

All four options would allow me to keep the gun’s safety on, the chamber free of bullets. I don’t know if I can handle a gun tonight. Scratch that. I know I cannot handle a gun tonight. Put Simon within range of a loaded weapon in my hand and I won’t get the first question out, won’t get the first truth revealed.

“Need any help?”

“Nope.” I don’t turn to the store’s attendant, the nerdy one whose eyes have undressed me three times in the last ten minutes. I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt five minutes ago, and his interest increased tenfold. I really don’t want to rob this guy, especially not over a handful of items that adds up to a large box of tampons. I stay in place, hidden from the street, standing behind a postcard carousel, and watch the road. Ten minutes and no one has passed more than once. I walked past all of the cars on the street twice before coming in here. No bodies in the cars, no stakeout, best I could tell. But I’ll give it two more minutes, just to be sure. I tap my fingers against a postcard of Niagara Falls, an inventory item that makes no freakin’ sense in Oklahoma. “Any cops come in here lately?” I ask.

“No.” A normal person would be suspicious of my question. A normal person wouldn’t choose to work the night shift in this neighborhood, especially not with white skin and acne that screams underage. I glance over at him for a moment before returning my gaze back to the street. I can’t pull my gun on this guy. It’ll ruin the boner he’s spent so much time and effort adjusting. Maybe I could offer to flash him, sex over violence, a new page for me to turn. What American male won’t pay a few bucks to see breasts? I count over windows till I get to my apartment. The lights are off. How considerate of the cops for my utility bill. Too bad that Simon’s is on the opposite side of the building, no hint as to its life from this angle. No matter. If he isn’t up I’ll wake him up. And her. Please let her be there.

My two-minute sentence ends and I turn, half-excited by my future, half-irritated by the steps needed to get there. I face the man and watch his eyes move to my face. Gun or sex, gun or sex… the kaleidoscope of options rolls through my mind. An easy decision, though sex feels dirtier, for some reason, than violence. I tilt my head and let a slow smile spread over my face, as my hand unwraps from the gun. I step across the store over to the crowded counter and lean on it, my elbows pressing into the hard edge, a glass mat of lotto tickets my stage. “Daniel…” I drawl the name off his name tag, and he shifts in his ironed khakis. “I have a proposition for you.”

Five minutes later, I move through the Quik Mart’s door, my sweatshirt back on, hood up, feet quiet, a tossed wave given to Daniel, who flashes an enthusiastic smile in my direction. I step outside and jog across the empty street, my feet hopping over the curb and along the broken sidewalk. I tug at the sleeve of my sweatshirt and cover my hand, use the protection to tug on the door’s handle. Then, just like that, I am inside Mulholland Oaks and thundering up the stairwell steps.

Second floor. If they are both there, I will go for him first.

Third floor. Maybe I’ll play nice in the beginning. Get their guard down while I look for extra weapons. Wait, answers. That’s what this is about. The plastic bag in my hand swings as I climb higher.

Fourth floor. I will burn this sweatshirt when this is all over.

Fifth floor. I can’t burn the sweatshirt. He gave me the sweatshirt. He may never have the chance to give me another. Assholes.

Sixth floor. I would have loved to shower but there is no time. I round the final bend in the stairs and stop on the landing, my chest aching. I wait, shaking out my limbs while my breathing calms. Jump a few times in place because I’ve seen guys do that on television before a fight and it looks badass. My breath quiets and I let out a long, controlled exhale. Then I quietly climb the last seven stairs and stop. I set the bag on the floor and crouch before it, pulling out my stash. I pop the plastic off each item, leaving a sea of plastic wrap and price tags on the ground. Sweet Daniel. Should my life ever return to normal, I’ll send him a thousand bucks. He rang up each item on the register, carefully and precisely. It had totaled $9.57 and he had even given me the forty-three cents of change. I start with the zip ties, pulling out a few pieces and linking them together, a foot or two of chain, both ends left open. Then I grab the duct tape, ripping off five long pieces and sticking one end of them to the backs of my legs, their loose tails fluttering down like fly strips. I keep the zip tie chain in one hand and put the rest of the unwrapped items in the plastic bag, snagging it off the ground. Moving to the door, I press softly on the door handle. Crack it a hair and peek down the hall. Empty. I push the door the rest of the way open and step into the hall.

I am not a physically imposing person, I don’t have a wealth of martial arts skills, I am horrible at taking a punch, and strangling others really takes it out of me. But all that being said, I am intelligent and I have studied the art of killing for the last half decade. When the creative minds at Survival Life posted instructions for a makeshift grenade with a PVC pipe, baking soda, and vinegar, I tested it out in the north stairwell one chilly December night. When Gizmodo explained the harmful effects of the Bleach Bomb and warned readers to “never ever create one,” I printed the recipe out and taped it to my fridge. Did you know you can create napalm by stirring Styrofoam in gasoline and scooping out the resulting goo? I don’t have to be a black belt or have my weapons arsenal to be dangerous. All I really need is to be smarter than my opponent.