This wasn’t about Junie. Just as it wasn’t about Honey when I’d left Troy. Men like David used those who mattered most to us as leverage to weasel their way back into our lives, to continue controlling us, to force us into their arms. If I knew nothing about this bastard, I would feel bad that he hadn’t seen his daughter in four years.
But I did know. I knew what he’d done to that little girl.
I knew why Simone had run from him. It was the best thing she could’ve done for Junie. I’d use myself as a human shield to protect that sweet child from this monster if it came to that.
“Bullshit.” His face was still disguised by the headlights behind him, all distinguishing features a mere dark shadow. “She hit me first. It doesn’t matter anyway. We have a custody agreement. My kid’s behind this gate, and I’m gonna?—”
“You’re gonna leave,” I repeated, stepping closer. We were only a few feet apart now. “You’re never gonna see Junie again. Get that through your head. I know what you did. I know everything you did, you sick son of a bitch, and you’re never going to hurt either of them again.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” he said, taking another step in. “But I have rights. She has warrants.” A wave at Simone, still lying on the ground, barely conscious—if she was still breathing at all. “This bitch stole my kid. That’s kidnapping. And you think you can—” Another step in. He shoved his chest into mine.
I pushed back.
Then it was a blur.
He shoved me, I pushed him. His hand came at my face, made contact. I jammed my knee toward his groin, then, somehow, his hand was around my throat.
His hand was around my throat, and I didn’t see his face. I didn’t see his eyes.
I saw Troy. I saw the nightmare I had just woken from twenty minutes ago.
I wasn’t surrounded by knee-high snow. I was standing in my kitchen, and the coffee pot was whizzing past my head, and Troy was screaming, then he was in front of me, those blue eyes so cold, so dead, but I had a blade this time.
I had a blade in my hoodie pocket.
Before I realized what I was doing, my hand was on it, switching it open. Before I realized what I was doing, it was in his gut. Before I realized what I was doing, I stabbed again.
And again.
And again.
Blood trickled from Troy’s lips.
I stabbed again.
He released my throat.
He fell to the ground, steam wafting from his blood, a cloud gathering between us, floating from each wound like smoke from the engine of a train.
There, laying atop the snow, covered in crimson, his blue eyes turned brown. His nose got bigger, his lips thicker. Rather than a balding blonde, a mop of brown covered in a black beanie. Instead of sweatpants and a band T-shirt, he wore baggie jeans. Beneath his black jacket, his white tank top was bright red.
He wasn’t Troy anymore.
He was David.
He was dead.
I couldn’t move.
Hands trembling at my sides, I dropped the blade. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
