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Find her weapon? What weapon?
A scream tore from her as he came over her again, moving between her legs, one hand gripping his penis, lining it up between her thighs.
No, Harley, please. Please no. Sobbing, reaching behind her, she fought to find a weapon.
“Did you find the knife, Zoey?” Insidious, malicious, that ugly voice whispered through her mind. “It’s right there. It’s right by your hand.”
Her fingers closed over the hilt of the knife.
“I’m going to kill you,” Harley snarled. “I’ll rape you until you die, Zoey, and then I’ll kill that fucking Dawg. And his prissy baby girl, Laken? I’ll rape her next. I’ll fuck her until she begs me . . .” His eyes jerked open wide.
Rage beat at her head, hysteria lashed at her senses. Her fists were beating out at him, slamming against him. He made a gurgling sound, his eyes dimming, turning dull before he fell over to the floor.
Then she saw the blood.
So much blood.
All over her. The knife in her hand, over her naked body, the floor and Harley’s body. It stained the wall, the furniture in her bedroom.
“Ahh, ahh God . . .” she sobbed, the knife clattering to the floor, terror gouging at her, tearing through her mind, slamming into it with such force that agony resonated through her head and stole her consciousness.
“You killed me, Zoey,” Harley whispered in that rough, unfamiliar voice, his green eyes lifeless, dull as he stared up at her. “You killed me with that knife. Don’t you ever forget you killed me, Zoey.”
She stared at him, blood flowing around her like a stream, sticky and hot, washing over her feet, then her ankles as she watched it in horror.
“Don’t you ever forget, Zoey. Don’t you forget, you killed me . . .”
Run.
Run. You have to escape here. Run to Lyrica. Run now. She’ll make sure you’re safe. Find Lyrica . . . Tell her to find Sam. Lyrica has to find Sam. Confess to Sam. Only Lyrica and Sam can save you . . .
She had to find Lyrica.
She was so cold and dizzy, her senses rocking, pitching her back and forth until she was throwing up, fighting to remain conscious.
She couldn’t black out again.
Not again.
/> “You killed me, Zoey.” She felt something wet wiping over her face, the smell of vomit no longer assaulting her senses. “Why did you kill me, Zoey?”
“You can’t tell Dawg, Zoey. You can’t tell him you killed me. You know he’ll tell Natches. Remember? Natches said he loved me like a son. I was his protégé. Remember how much Natches loves me, Zoey?”
Natches did love Harley. They were always hunting and shooting, and Natches said Harley was his heir to . . . To what? She couldn’t remember now. What was he Natches’s heir to?
The blackout came again, a vicious, agonizing explosion of pain that brought merciful blackness.
“I’m Natches’s heir,” dark and grating, the voice reminded her again. “Natches will kill you, Zoey. Like he killed his cousin Johnny all those years ago. Natches will kill you. He’ll pop your little head like a grape . . .”
“No,” she whispered, fighting to drag herself back to awareness. “No. Please . . .”
“Natches will kill you. Like he killed Johnny when Johnny tried to hurt Christa and Dawg. Remember, Zoey? You heard about it. Cousin Johnny tried to hurt Dawg and Christa and Natches popped his little head with a bullet. You killed me. You killed me, Zoey. Natches will enjoy killing you.”
Zoey forced her eyes open, blinking, pain raging through her head. She wasn’t in the suite she’d moved into at her mother’s Bed-and-Breakfast Inn any longer. The bedroom where she had killed Harley was gone. Instead, she was propped against the sliding patio door of her sister’s apartment just outside Somerset.
Lyrica.
Lyrica would help her. Her sister would help her, and maybe Natches wouldn’t kill her like he killed Johnny. She would find Sam, and she would tell Sam what happened. Sam would make sure Natches didn’t kill her.
