Page 75 of The Killer Card

She wrapped my fingers and cleaned by face of the blood, but I still smell like sweat and rain. “Third door on—”

“I remember where it is,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

She nods, quickly turning away to dry or burn or throw out my dress shirt. Honestly, I don’t give a shit what happens to it since it’s very unlikely she’ll get the stains out. Blood is notoriously difficult. I would know.

When I reach her room, I allow myself a slow perusal- for old times’ sake- before heading toward the shower. Nothing has changed, not really. Her bra still hangs on the back of her door, her bed is still covered in a thousand pillows, and her walls are decorated with pictures of her friends across the years. I can’t help chuckling at the more ridiculous ones, taken with filters and silly poses, showing off the innocence they all clung to not so long ago.

Shaking my head, I go to her dresser where I’d stashed a few shirts the last time I was here. Hopefully she didn’t notice and get rid of them after our talk last week. The last thing I need while waiting to be arrested is to steal one of her brother’s old shirts.

Opening the bottom drawer, I sigh with relief when I find my stash. I grab a new white t-shirt but pause when I hear the shifting of glass. Frowning, I pull the other clothes aside and blink at the sheer number of mini bottles lying at the bottom. There have to be fifty? Maybe more? No there can’t be more. There’s wine and tequila and a lot of vodka. Opening the next drawer over I find a few regular sized bottles hidden amongst her pajamas, none of them full. There’s whiskey, gin, and more vodka.

“Вот чёрт…” I curse under my breath. “Naomi, what are you doing…?”

I close the drawer, dragging a hand through my hair. I’ve suspected she doesn’t have a very healthy relationship with alcohol for some time, but I never imagined it had gotten this far. Not to the stashing bottles in her room level.

Those days are still not that far away from me, not far enough for me to feel safe in certain settings. Not with alcohol, God I wish it had been alcohol. It was a dozen other more dangerously illegal substances that I am so glad to have kicked. I’m lucky Rowan and Elias helped me get over them. Asking for their help was excruciating, embarrassing, fucking painful, but if I hadn’t I’d probably be dead today.

I’m shutting off the water in her shower when I decide I can’t let her keep waiting. I can’t let her get as far as I did. What if it’s not just alcohol? What if there are other things hidden in this room? What if there are things she seeks out and does away from me or her friends or The Cellar that we don’t know about?

No, Graham, you would be able to tell.

I know all the signs of a drug addict and Naomi doesn’t exhibit any of them. She hardly exhibits signs of alcoholism, but the evidence is surrounding me as I pull on a fresh shirt and my suit pants- sans underwear.

Taking a few of the empty mini bottles from her bottom drawer, I remind myself to keep it together. I have to handle this delicately. I have to stay calm and kind and not just jump to any conclusions. When I walk back into the kitchen she’s sitting at the table again with a glass of wine.

“Your shirt’s in the dryer,” she says, quickly wiping her eyes before turning my way. She freezes when I hold up my hand, four mini bottles dangling between my fingers. Her reaction is very telling. Instantly her wide blue eyes shift from horror to shame to anger, her lips pulling down in a scowl.

“What are these, Naomi?”

She stands, ripping them from my hand. “You went through my things—”

“I was only grabbing a new t-shirt.” I pull at the fabric pointedly. She knew my clothes were in that drawer. Did she want me to find them? “There are dozens of these in there. Is there something you need to tell me?”

She scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

I force a deep breath, remind myself how defensive I used to be. Very calmly I ask, “Are you sure? Naomi, you can tell me anything—”

“Oh, that’s real rich coming from you.” I reel back as if she’s slapped me. “You who hides everything about your fucking life until it’s most convenient for you or until you’re caught in a corner with no choice but to tell the truth.”

Holding up my hands, I try to keep my voice controlled, practicing all those things the therapist used to tell me. “Naomi—”

“Would you ever even have told me if you hadn’t nearly done it again?” She demands, deflecting, riling me up so my attention is no longer on her. “Would I ever have known you were a murderer—”

“Hold the fuck up!” I take a hearty step toward her. “I am not a murderer—”

“You just sat here and told me how you killed your grandfather—”

“To fucking save myself!” I lean in close enough to smell the wine and liquor on her breath, a heady combination of florals and antiseptic that nauseates me. “That doesn’t make me a murderer—”

“You nearly beat a man to death tonight—”

“To save your fucking friend!” My voice drops several, dangerous octaves. “And you know what, I wish I had killed him. I should have killed him. It would have been so satisfying.”

She blinks, trying to back away from me, but I crowd her until her backside hits the table. “You don’t mean that—”

“Oh, yes I do. I wish I could kill every man like him. Every one of them. I want to feel their blood on my skin, I want to watch the light leave their soulless eyes and I want them to suffer every single second.”

“You’re admitting it—”