Chapter 128
Anna POV
The metallic smell of blood filled my nostrils as I stood over George Wilson, knife gripped tightly in my shaking hand. His blood was seeping into my beige carpet—the same man who had haunted my nightmares for years was now cowering before me, clutching his side where I'd stabbed him.
"Please, Annie... don't kill me!" George whimpered, his face contorted in pain and fear. Tears and snot mixed on his unshaven face. "I'm your dad, remember? Your daddy!"
Something cold and unfamiliar settled in my chest as I looked down at him. The knife felt strangely comfortable in my hand. I'd never imagined myself capable of this—standing over someone, weapon in hand, completely in control.
"You were never my father," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Now tell me exactly what you meant about Richard hiring you."
George's eyes darted around the room, searching for escape. I pressed the fruit knife closer to his throat, feeling a surge of power I'd never experienced before.
"It was them! The Parkers!" he sputtered, wincing as he tried to shift position. "They sent me here. Said they needed someone to... to handle a situation."
"What situation?" I pressed the knife just enough to draw a tiny bead of blood.
"Jesus! Okay, okay!" His voice rose to a panicked pitch. "They want your bone marrow for Irene. Richard promised me one fifty grand to knock you out and bring you to a private clinic. Said something about you refusing to help, but they need that transplant ASAP."
My stomach churned at the thought of Richard sending my abuser to fetch me. "And you thought, what? That you'd have some fun with me first?"
George had the decency to look away. "Look, I was just supposed to bring you in. That's all."
The nausea rose in my throat. Of all people, Richard had sent George—the man who'd tried to rape me, who'd destroyed Helen's life. I couldn't comprehend the cruelty of that choice.
I stepped on his wound, making him howl in pain. My hand trembled slightly, but my mind remained clear.
"Annie, please! I'm bleeding bad!" George begged, his tough-guy facade completely shattered.
"Call him," I said suddenly.
"What?"
"Call Richard Parker. Right now." I reached for George's phone in his pocket, keeping the knife steady at his throat. "Call him and get him to admit what he asked you to do."
George's shaking fingers took the phone. I helped him dial, my knife never leaving his throat, and put the call on speaker. The ringing echoed in my silent apartment, but no one answered. We tried again. Still nothing.
On the third attempt, Richard finally picked up.
"Wilson?" Richard's cool voice filled the room. "This better be important."
"I... I did it," George stammered, his eyes fixed on my knife.
There was a pause. "Did what? What are you talking about?"
"You know," George continued nervously. "The job. With Anna. It's done."
"What job? I have no idea what you're—"
I hung up the phone, my eyes boring into George's. "You're lying."
His eyes darted back and forth, calculating. "No, no, I'm not! He's just being careful on the phone. You know these rich types—they never incriminate themselves."
"Or maybe you made the whole thing up," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Maybe you just came here to hurt me again."
"I swear, Annie! Richard hired me! They want you at their clinic!" George pleaded, desperation etched on his face. "Why would I make that up?"
I looked at him dispassionately. The sad thing was, I could believe Richard might do something like this. But sending George specifically? And Richard's genuine confusion on the phone?
Something wasn't adding up.
I kicked George hard in the ribs, then again in his wounded side. He screamed, curling into himself.
"Who really sent you? Tell me the truth!" I demanded, delivering another kick.
"No one! Richard! I swear!" Each word came between gasps of pain.
I stepped back, keeping the knife pointed at him but no longer pressing it against his skin. A strange calm washed over me—the kind that comes when you've hit rock bottom and there's nowhere else to go.
"I'm calling 911," I said evenly. "You're going to tell the police everything. Every detail."
"And if I don't?" he challenged weakly.
My gaze remained cold. "Then I'll tell them how you broke into my apartment and tried to rape me, just like eight years ago. Your blood is on my knife, and your prints are all over my apartment."
He stared at me, defeated.
I moved toward my phone, but before dialing, I paused. Looking directly into his eyes, I deliberately stepped hard on his groin. His scream was primal, echoing off the walls of my small apartment.
"That thing between your legs," I said coldly as he writhed in agony, "is just a disease to the world."
George passed out from the combination of blood loss and pain. I called 911, reporting a home invasion and stabbing in a voice that sounded detached even to my own ears.
After hanging up, I unlocked my door and stepped into the hallway. My elderly neighbor was just coming up the stairs with her groceries. She took one look at me—blood-spattered, disheveled, clutching a bloody knife—and dropped her bags.
"Oh my God! What's happening here?" Her eyes were wide with horror.
I couldn't find the words to explain. I just gestured vaguely toward my open apartment door. Mrs. Grayson cautiously peered inside, then recoiled at the sight of George's unconscious form on my bloodied carpet.
"Holy Mother of—" She backed away, fumbling for her phone. "I'm calling the police!"
"I already did," I said quietly. "They're coming."
I walked past her toward the stairwell, my movements mechanical. The strange calm that had possessed me inside my apartment wasn't true serenity—it was the artificial stillness that follows when your mind and body have burned through all available emotional fuel. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, this false composure began to crumble. The adrenaline that had kept me upright and focused was ebbing away, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Outside, the evening air hit my face like a physical blow. The reality of what had just happened—what I had just done—crashed over me in waves. I'd stabbed a man. I'd tortured him for information. The knife I'd been clutching fell from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering on the sidewalk.
I leaned against a tree, legs trembling so violently I wasn't sure they could support me anymore. My lungs felt constricted, each breath a conscious effort. Distantly, I registered the cool bark against my palm, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of someone's dinner cooking, the ordinary sounds of a evening continuing around me.
I'd come here to escape my past, but it had found me anyway. The Parkers, George, all of it—there was no outrunning who I was or what had been done to me. Maybe there never would be.
I slid down to sit at the base of the tree, watching as the first blue lights appeared in the distance, sirens growing louder. But despite everything, as I sat there waiting for whatever would come next, something shifted inside me.
I wasn't running. I wasn't hiding. I was facing the truth, no matter how ugly. My biological family had never truly accepted me—that much was clear. They'd only wanted what they could take from me. And George... George had come back to hurt me again, whether on Richard's orders or his own twisted desires.
But this time, I'd fought back. This time, I'd won.
The blood drying on my hands was a reminder: I wasn't a victim anymore.