“Better?” he asks.
I nod weakly.
The man crouches down beside George’s body. He places a pale hand on my stepfather’s chest. “His heart has stopped.”
I clutch my knees with my palms. “Who are you?”
The man smiles at me. He does not appear evil, in spite of what he just told me to do. This is a person I can trust.
“My name is Charles,” he says. “You can call me Chas.”
“And why are you in my house?”
Chas smiles wider. “Don’t you see the family resemblance, Tom?”
I stare at him.
“I’m your brother,” he says.
_____
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. This man who does admittedly look very much like me is in my house and is saying that he’s my brother (well, half-brother) and he’s here to help me make “the transition.” He’s all business, fetching towels to mop up the blood and saying how much easier this will be than usual, because of the luxury of the indoor water pump we have.
“Of course,” Chas says, “there would be a lot less mess to clean up if you hadn’t let him bleed all over the floor. I hope you’ll know not to make that mistake again next time.”
“Next time?” I say numbly.
What does he think? That I’m going to go around town, slitting everyone’s throats?
Chas tosses me one of Ma’s towels. “Clean up what you can from the floor. I’ll get rid of the body.”
I stare at him. “Get rid of the body? What are you talking about?”
He sighs. “Fine, Tom. We’ll just leave him here with his throat slit, and you can explain to your sweetheart Mary’s daddy exactly what happened. How do you think that will go?”
He has a point.
“What are you going to do with the body?” I ask.
“Let me worry about that.”
Chas heaves George’s body onto his back with surprising strength. George has to weigh at least two-hundred pounds, but Chas lifts him like he’s lighter than air. He stands there for a moment, surveying the room.
“Pick up the pieces of the vase too,” he says. “Put it in a paper sack along with the towels you use to clean up. And that bloody shirt you’re wearing. I’ll be back to get rid of it for you.”
“My mother will notice the vase is gone,” I point out.
“Your mother is the least of our problems.”
I watch as Chas trots off through the back door, leaving me with a shattered vase and a pool of blood to clean up. It’s the last thing I want to do right now—I’m still not entirely sure I won’t be sick—but I have no choice. I don’t want the sheriff taking me away for murdering George Blake. Ma needs me.
And the truth is, George deserved to die.
I already know from my time at Sullivan’s that blood is difficult to scrub from wood. At the butcher shop, a few blood stains on the floor are not a big deal, and in fact are expected. But it will not do to have any sign that a man died in this room.
As I perform this mindless task, I think about George. I know now that I never loved the man, and I might have even hated him. But I hadn’t meant to kill him. Every time I think about what I have done, my hands start to shake and I have to take a break from scrubbing. When I held that blade to his neck, I had every intention of letting him go, but then…
What happened after is even more upsetting. That man, Charles, in my home, ordering me to drink the blood spilling out of George’s neck. Even worse, I did what he asked. And while I was drinking, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt like what I was meant to be doing all along—that up until now, I’d been holding myself back.
But it is wrong. There is no denying that what I did tonight was deeply and terribly wrong.
There is something deeply and terribly wrong with me.
I stop scrubbing and sit down on the floor. I thought doing what Chas told me to do was the right thing—I can’t let myself be taken to prison and leave my mother to fend for herself. Yet… someone who did what I did tonight deserves to be locked up. I have to face the music.
After all, I hadn’t intended to kill George. What if I do it again?
What if I hurt my mother?
“You did a good job.” Chas’s voice interrupts my thoughts. He has entered the house again without my hearing him. How does he move so silently? “I can’t see the blood at all. Well done, brother. You’re a natural.”
I look up at his face—God, he looks so much like me. “I have to turn myself in, Chas.”
Chas’s dark eyes widen. “You’re crazy as a bedbug, Tom! Why would you do something like that?”
“Because I killed a man!” I rub my face, probably smearing blood on it, but I don’t care anymore. “I’m scared I’ll do it again. I… I should be locked up.”
“Of course you’ll do it again,” Chas snorts. “That’s your nature. But you’re not an animal. You won’t go around killing people at random. That would be madness!”
“I didn’t want to kill him.”
“Didn’t you?” He raises his eyebrows. “It looks to me that you did. It looks to me that he was an evil man who deserved to die. And that your dear mother will be much better off without him. At least, she will be unless her only son gets hanged for murder.”
I don’t know what to say. He does make an excellent point.
“And once you’re gone,” Chas whispers, his eyes growing darker, “your poor, beautiful mother will be left all alone. Nobody will be around to protect her. She’ll be at the mercy of whatever dark creatures are lurking around.”
I stare at him. “Are you… threatening me?”
He smiles benignly and his eyes lighten again. It is then I realize he has a natural charm he can easily turn on and off at will. “Of course not. I’m warning you, Tom. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Nothing good will come of it.”
He takes the bloody towels from me as well as the pieces of the vase. I pull my blood-stained shirt over my head and hand that to him as well. And then he is gone. I’m not sure if he’ll ever return. I hope he won’t, but I know that is unlikely. He’s been following me around for this long—why would he stop now?
After he leaves, I fill a bucket of water to clean the blood from my hands. It is the last piece of evidence that I have murdered my stepfather. As I let the cold water cleanse my palms, I see for the first time that the scar George gave me has completely disappeared.
Chapter 17: Brooke
There’s blood everywhere.
If there was ever proof that I’m not any kind of Suzy Homemaker, the proof is right here, in the gaping wound on my left palm. Hunter suggested a picnic today at Central Park, and I told him I was going to make an apple pie. Two minutes into peeling Granny Smiths, I’m gushing dark red liquid all over my sink.
It probably wouldn’t be such a bad cut except for the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever even used my peeler, so the blade is still incredibly sharp.
I wash out my cut then try to ease the flow of blood with toilet paper. It is not working at all. The toilet paper is just sticking to the wound, which seems to be bleeding just as much as before. I check my medicine cabinet and find a box of band aids that is totally empty. Way to be prepared for injury, Brooke.
I jam a bunch of toilet paper on my hand, grab my purse, and head out the door. At first, my plan is to go to the drug store two blocks away, but then instead I head for the stairs. Jamie seems like the kind of well-prepared guy who’s got some band aids stashed away, and then I won’t have to stand in line bleeding at CVS.
As I knock on his door, the thought occurs to me that maybe Gabby is with him. Maybe I’ll be interrupting a date. That would be really awkward. I’m sure she won’t love the idea that I just stop by randomly to her boyfriend’s apartment on a whim. But then again, I’m bleeding. I’ve got a good reason.
Anyway, I’ve already knocked.
When Jamie opens the door to his apartment,
I can already tell he’s alone. His eyes light up at the sight of me until he notices the blood rapidly saturating the toilet paper on my left hand.
“Brooke,” he gasps.
“I need a band aid,” I say apologetically. “Do you have any?”
He shakes his head. “What did you do to yourself?”
I shrug. “There was an incident peeling apples.”
“I’ll say.”
I shoot him a look. “Aren’t you going to invite me in and dress my wounds?”
He laughs and steps back to let me come in. “Let’s go to the bathroom. I’ve got everything in there.”
I notice when he’s in his apartment, Jamie doesn’t use his cane. He has this way of walking where he grabs onto the furniture or the wall or whatever is next to him to help him keep his balance. I wonder if he strategically placed his furniture to allow him to do this.
I’ve been in Jamie’s bathroom before, and I’d noticed the grab bar he has next to the toilet. He doesn’t own the place, which makes me wonder if it was already an accessible apartment when he started renting it. He also has a bench in the shower because I guess it’s hard for him to stand up to shower.
He catches me looking at the shower and his cheeks color, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he holds out his hand. “Give it here.”
“You don’t want to touch my bloody hand.”
“I said give it here,” he says stubbornly.
I peel back the toilet paper from my wound. He winces. “Wow, you really did a number on yourself.”
I cringe. “I told you, it’s gross. Good thing I’m around blood all the time or else I’d probably be face planting right now.” I study his face. “You’re not squeamish, are you?”
“I don’t think I am,” he says, although he doesn’t sound so sure now that he’s faced with the flap of skin hanging loose from my hand.
He grabs a box of band aids from a shelf in his bathroom while I rinse the fresh blood from my hand. He rifles through it and pulls out a large square-shaped bandage. Then he grabs a tube of something from the shelf.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Triple antibiotic ointment.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need that. Do you think I cut my hand with a rusty hook?”
“If you had,” he says, “I’d be marching you to the ER for a tetanus shot. Come on, just let me put some ointment on it.”
I hold out my hand to him, which is already oozing fresh blood, but at least it’s not gushing anymore. He dabs some ointment on his finger, then spreads it over the cut. Clearly, he’s not worried about me carrying communicable blood-borne diseases.
“Maybe you should wear gloves,” I joke.
“Yeah? Why?”
I grin up at him. “Cooties.”
He smiles back. “I don’t mind your cooties.”
For a moment, we just stand there, smiling at each other, even as I’m dripping blood onto the white porcelain of his sink. And not for the first time, I wish I weren’t dating Hunter and he wasn’t dating Gabby. He and I should be together. If there’s a guy out there who’s the first person you think to go to when you cut your hand or have a boogeyman in the closet, he should be the guy you’re with.
“Anyway.” Jamie clears his throat. “Let me get the band aid on you.”
The band aid just covers my wound. He fits it to my injured hand, his fingers lingering on my skin as he smooths the adhesive into place. “So,” he says, “why were you peeling apples?”
“Making apple pie,” I say.
“Apple pie, huh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Any special occasion?”
“Having a picnic.”
“A picnic?” His eyebrows go up another millimeter or two. “With your new boyfriend?”
I nod.
He drops my newly dressed hand. He takes a step back, and this time, his smile is crooked. “Well, I’m sure you can pick up a pie at the supermarket.”
“It’ll probably taste better,” I admit.
He rifles around in his box of band aids and pulls out two more shaped like the one he put on my hand. “Here. Take these for later.”
I grab the bandages from him and put them in my pocket. “Thanks.”
We stand there in the bathroom, neither of us sure what to say. Part of me wants to tell him everything I’ve been thinking about him, but the more sensible part of me knows I shouldn’t.
Finally, Jamie says, “I guess you need to get going then?”
I nod. “I guess I do.”
_____
Hunter is waiting outside his car for me like usual. Since we’re having a picnic, he’s dressed more casually than he has for our previous dates, when he always seemed like he was coming from the office. He’s got on a pair of khaki slacks that look new and expensive, paired with a navy blue shirt rolled up to the elbows to reveal his well-muscled forearms. He looks casual, but Abercrombie and Fitch casual, if you know what I mean. And he’s wearing those Ray Ban sunglasses that he pulls off when I get close.
“Brooke.” He flashes his white teeth at me. “You look beautiful.”
I look down at my navy blue dress which is the same color as Hunter’s shirt—we match. Honestly, I was just trying to find something that wouldn’t show blood if my wound started oozing.
“I brought apple pie,” I tell him, holding it out to him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Did you make it?”
“Sure,” I lie.
Okay, so I went to the supermarket, bought a rustic apple pie, took it out of the container, and traumatized it a little with a fork so it wouldn’t appear store-bought. Oh, stop it. Everyone does it.
Hunter looks down at the apple pie and his dark eyes widen. At first, I’m certain he’s onto my little ruse, but then I realize he’s looking at the bandage on my left hand.
In the hour since I sliced open my hand, I’ve had to change the bandage once because it was completely saturated. The blood flow has eased considerably but the bandage I’ve got on has enough blood on it that you can see it staining the pad.
“What happened to your hand?” Hunter asks me.
He grabs my left hand to get a closer look and I have to lay the pie down on the hood of his car to keep from dropping it. “I slipped with the apple peeler.”
Hunter stares down at the bandage for a moment, then without asking, he peels it off to look at the wound. In a way, I guess it’s sweet? He’s concerned about my injury.
“It’s still bleeding,” he notes as he looks down at my hand.
“A little,” I say. “It stops and starts.”
He brings my hand closer, so that it’s inches from his face. “It’s mostly clotted, but not entirely.” He cocks his head. “All venous blood though. Not arterial.”
Uh… what?
He continues to stare at my hand. He’s got it so close to his face that it looks like he’s going to… I don’t know what. Lick it? God knows why he’d do something like that though. If he started licking my hand wound, I’d have to break up with him. There’s a line for what I’m able to tolerate in a relationship, and licking of hand wounds crosses that line.
But instead, he drops my hand and smiles at me. His dark eyes meet mine and I feel a sudden dizzy, trance-like sensation come over me. “Come to me, Brooke.”
I bridge the small gap between us and automatically lift my face to him. He lowers his lips onto mine and kisses me so passionately, I feel my knees go weak beneath me. He’s a very good kisser. An excellent kisser.
He pulls away first, staring down at me, a tiny smile playing on his lips. He traces a line down the side of my face with his finger. “Let’s go have a picnic.”
“Wait,” I say. “I’ve got to put a new bandage on my hand. I’ve got one upstairs.”
Hunter glances down at the open wound on my palm. “Leave it for now. We’ll buy you a bandage later.”
Except we never end up buying those band aids. I spend the entire afternoon with Hunter with my wound open, oozi
ng blood that stains my palm dark red.
Chapter 18: Brooke
Tonight I’ve agreed to come up to Hunter’s apartment after dinner for “coffee,” whatever that means. I told him in no uncertain terms it does not mean sex. I’m not the sort of girl who has sex with a guy after less than a month of dating—I’m going to make him stick to my three month rule. But at the same time, I know we’re not going to actually be drinking coffee. What kind of psychopath drinks coffee at ten o’clock at night?
Hunter has the most amazing apartment I’ve ever seen. My entire apartment could easily fit in his living room. I’m worried that my entire apartment could fit in his bathroom. The furniture is so obviously expensive, from his plush leather couch to the gigantic television with adjacent speakers. He probably has surround-sound.
He also has an incredible view of the Manhattan skyline. After I take in the living room, I make a beeline for the window. I get so close to the glass that my breath makes a cloud of condensation.
Hunter joins me at the window. He sees my breath fogging the window and he quickly makes a heart with his finger, writing “H + B” inside the heart.
“Aw,” I say.
He grins at me. “I thought you were scared of heights.”
“Not when there’s a thick layer of glass protecting me.” I gaze into the bright lights of the city at night. “This is the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen.”
Hunter looks me up and down. “I disagree.”
I laugh, but feel my cheeks redden. I don’t know why Hunter is so into me. He clearly could have any woman he wants. He could be dating nothing but models. Yet I don’t doubt he wants to be here with me. He genuinely likes me—I can tell by the way he looks at me.
He reaches out his fingers for my neck and I flinch instinctively like any sane person would when a man reaches for her neck. But he’s just reaching out to touch the chain around my neck. I’m wearing the necklace Gabby gave me with the cross on it.
“Are you religious?” he asks me.
“No, not at all,” I say. “Are you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his dark brows bunching together as if the question has angered him. “I don’t believe in that nonsense,” he finally says.
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