CHAPTER 47
He gurgles something. A protest? A plea? Doesn’t matter. He’s beyond words now—just breath and blood and the slow crawl toward death.
I poise the blade at his neck and look him in the eye.
He’s still smirking. Still thinks he’s in control. That I’ll hesitate.
I lean in close, voice steady, breath shaking.
“You die knowing I wasn’t afraid of you.”
Then I drag the blade across his throat.
Crimson blooms, oozing from the gap.
His hands twitch like he’s trying to move them to his neck. Like he can push the blood back in. But then, they go slack.
His head drops to the side. Stare fixed on nothing.
And I feel it.
The moment he dies.
The moment the silence is sudden. Whole.
I look down at him.
His chest is still. mouth is open. A red halo beneath him.
And I know—I did that.
I ended him.
And I don’t feel guilty.
I feel…
The quiet.
It sinks in behind my ears, across the crown of my head like cool, thick sludge. Not warm. Not fuzzy. Just… quiet. Heavy. Like my brain pulled the emergency brake and everything is coasting in slow motion.
I exhale, long and shaky, like I’ve been holding it in for hours.
My arms tremble. My thighs ache from kneeling.
There’s blood everywhere—on my hands, under my nails, soaking my shirt, my bra, my soul.
It’s in my hair. On my face. I can taste it again. Copper and adrenaline.
I shuffle back toward the house like I’m underwater.
The knife drops from my hand with a dull clatter on the cement.
I don’t even look at him. Not yet.
I’m still floating, trying not to break the euphoria.
Dexter is barking—sharp and frantic. Like an alarm clock in a bomb shelter.
That’s what pulls me back. That panicked sound yanks me out of my daze and slams me into my body.
“Dex…” I whisper, voice cracked and raw.
Then he stops barking.
Just—goes quiet.
He’s sniffing something.
I blink, vision catching up half a second too late.
I look at him. The man I killed. But something is… wrong.
Finally, I see it.
One eye missing. It’s now just a dark, hollow pit.
The other stares blankly at the sky like it’s waiting for instructions. Blood everywhere. Skin torn. Like something tried to peel him open and quit halfway through.
And Dexter…
Dexter is sniffing the eyeball.
“Ew—Dexter. No!”
I lunge and scoop him up with blood-slick hands. He wriggles like he doesn’t understand the problem. Like his gourmet dog food wasn’t enough and now he’s feeling adventurous.
“No eyeballs,” I scold. “We donotsnack on serial killers.”
I clutch him to my chest, his little heart hammering against mine, and I finally look at it all.
The scene.
The carnage.
What I did.
What Icando.
And the fog lifts just enough for the question I’d been hoping to avoid:
“…Now what in the lemon-drop dandy do I do?”
I stagger to my feet, Dexter in one arm, and bolt for the door. I fumble the knob, shove it open, and slam it behind me.
There’s blood on my door. My face. My arms. My everything.
I look like I just walked off a slasher film, and all I can think about is the Eye of Sauron sitting on my driveway.
I can’t move forward. I can’t breathe until it’s gone.
I try to prioritize the to-do list in my mind.
Hide the body.
Wash the blood.
Bathe in lemon-scented disinfectant.
But no—nothing can happen until the eyeball is gone. Out of sight and off the driveway.
I go to the kitchen, open the utensil drawer, and grab the first thing I see.
A spatula? No.
How ridiculous. What on earth can you do with a spatula?
Tongs? I’d feel the eye give—soft squish, rolling weight. Absolutely not.
A spoon? This isn’t an Easter egg race.
I need something distant. Functional. Something to help me pretend I’m not removing a literal eyeball from my property.
Ah. The turkey baster.
Nestled in the back of the drawer like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment.
I stare at it, and can’t believe I’m seriously considering this buuut…
The nozzle is a little wide. Maybe eyeball size? Yes. This could work.
“I guess it’s not just for Thanksgiving any more.”
Dexter stays tucked under my arm like a panting loaf of bread. I make my way to the door, my bloody steps squeaking like clown shoes.
Outside, the air has changed.
Heavier. Metallic. The scent of blood baked into the house under the low evening light old pennies.
And there it is.
The eye.
Sitting there like a rejected marble.
The floodlight glints off it. My throat tightens.
Dexter sniffs toward it again.
“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” I whisper, lowering myself as every joint screams this is a bad idea.
I keep my gaze just off-center—like if I look straight at it, I’ll go mad.
Like it’ll curse me if we make eye contact.
Ha. Eye contact. Get it?
The baster hovers, trembling in my hand. I squeeze the bulb.
I hesitate.
Then I release.
The suction is wet, and immediate.