Chapter 38 She Became a Murderer
Caroline's body went rigid.
The rumors that had faded over the years—whispers about her pushing Edith off the dock—slashed back into her mind, sharp as a blade.
"No!" Caroline clutched her head, nails clawing at her scalp in a frenzy.
Blood slicked her fingers within seconds.
"I didn't! I didn't push Edith! I didn't! You have to believe me! Aaahhh!!!"
She rolled across the floor like someone unhinged, screaming, smashing her head against the ground as if pain could erase the guilt tearing through her soul.
Alexander watched her collapse without a flicker of sympathy. Only when her cries weakened did he step forward, bending to pick up the short black stick lying between them.
He lifted her tear- and snot-streaked face with the blunt end.
"Look at them, Caroline." His voice was low, heavy.
"What they did to you tonight—does it hurt more than what you did to Edith?"
Her eyes were glassy, vision blurred by tears.
"They made you crawl in front of them. They ripped your clothes. They trampled your dignity. They almost violated you in the filthiest way possible."
His words pressed into her ear like poison.
"And you… you didn't fight them? Where the hell is your line?"
The stick tilted her chin up, harder now.
"You had the guts to destroy Edith—someone who treated you with nothing but kindness—but you don't have the courage to strike back at men who hurt you?"
"Pick it up." He shoved the stick into her cold, trembling hands, forcing her fingers to curl around it. "Or use the knife. Choose."
Her hands were stiff, icy, barely able to hold the weight.
She glanced at the stick, then at the fruit knife gleaming on the table, and finally toward the men kneeling in front of her.
Alexander's mouth curved faintly as he straightened.
"I heard two of them used to run in gang fights. Do you want to take them all down… or find out which ones were there?"
The last thread in her mind snapped.
Caroline's head jerked up, her eyes bloodshot as she scanned the faces—men so terrified they'd pissed themselves.
Two of them… they had been on the dock that night. Like her, they'd been part of Edith's death.
She staggered to her feet.
She was no longer the clean, kind psychologist she once pretended to be.
She was the sinner who killed her sister. The plaything trampled by countless men.
She had nothing left to lose.
These men had treated her like trash tonight.
They'd caused real pain. Real humiliation.
And they'd hurt Edith.
They deserved to die. Every single one.
"Aaahhh!!!"
Caroline lunged at the nearest—Xavier.
"No! Don't! I was wrong! I swear I was wrong! Please!" Xavier's face drained to white, his forehead smashing into the floor in frantic bows.
But Caroline heard nothing.
"Die! All of you die!!!" she screamed, swinging the stick down onto his shoulder with all her strength.
"Ahhh!" Xavier crumpled, screaming.
She was an animal now, swinging again and again, the blows landing on his head, his back, anywhere she could reach.
"Enough! Caroline! Enough!" Alexander's voice cut through the chaos.
But she couldn't stop.
She dropped the bloodied stick, lunged for the table, and snatched the fruit knife.
"No! Don't!" another man shrieked.
Caroline turned, knife in hand, her eyes locked on him.
She remembered—this was the one who had defiled Edith… and had dragged her own name through the dirt.
"You… you said Edith…" She muttered, stepping closer, each step deliberate.
"I didn't! I was lying! Please!" He scrambled backward, panic twisting his face.
But she didn't hear him.
Her mind saw only Edith lying in a pool of blood, the image merging with his face.
"Die!"
Her scream tore the air as she drove the blade forward with both hands.
Warm blood exploded across her face and fingers.
Caroline froze.
She stared at her blood-soaked hands.
She… had killed someone.
Blood slid down the knife handle, pooling in her palm.
"Ah… aaahhh!!!"
Her scream was raw, animal. She dropped the knife, stumbling back, staring at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.
She murmured, "No. This can't be real."
She'd killed a man. She was a murderer.
She was no different from the predators she despised.
Alexander stepped in, seizing her wrist.
"Look at them, Caroline." His voice was ice. "Your hands are covered in blood. You're no different from them."
"No! It's not me! Let go!" Caroline thrashed, desperate to wipe the blood away.
But the red burned into her skin, flooding her senses with nothing but scarlet.
Her stomach twisted violently. She bent forward, gagging, but nothing came out.
Her vision tunneled. A roar filled her ears.
Before darkness swallowed her, the last thing she saw was her reflection in Alexander's eyes—drenched in blood, a demon clawing its way out of hell.
She blacked out.
When she woke, she was in an unfamiliar room—like a lounge in a private club.
She turned her head. A middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform stood with her back to Caroline, arranging instruments on a tray.
Caroline tried to speak, to ask where she was, what had happened.
But when she opened her mouth, her throat locked tight. Only breath escaped. No sound.
She… had lost her voice.