Page 77 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘No.’

‘You don’t have to do this, Kitty,’ he says quietly. He’s using his therapist voice. I’ve heard it before. And I trusted it last time. When he told me that he was in love with Tor. That he would never hurt her. That I should give him a chance, even though I knew he was targeting her because she was his patient and vulnerable. I will never ignore what my gut is screaming at me again.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I absolutely do have to do this. Because I promised Tor I would. You remember Tor, don’t you? The woman you battered and left for dead because she wouldn’t have sex with you?’

‘You haven’t got it in you to kill, Kitty,’ he says.

This makes me laugh.

‘Really?’ I say. ‘Well actually, you won’t even be the first man I’ve killed. You’re not even the first man I’ve killed today.’ Okay, so technically Antoinette killed Richard Stone, but Aidan Ward doesn’t need to know that.

He stares at me and I see it, a tiny glimmer of fear sparking in his eyes.

I love it when men realise they’ve underestimated me.

It’s better than sex.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

‘Your voice is annoying me,’ I say as I reach for a roll of duct tape and slap some across his mouth, slicing it off with the knife. ‘And I mean I’ve already murdered someone today. A producer who got handsy with a friend. Stabbed him through the neck with an ice pick.’ I move closer towards him and feel a little rush of endorphins as he tries to scuttle away from me. Not an easy move when your ankles are cable-tied together. I squat down so I’m on my haunches at the same level as him. My thigh muscles protest. Loudly. They still haven’t recovered from that impromptu CrossFit session.

I look him directly in the eyes. ‘And over there,’ I nod towards the LV cases, ‘are the remains of Ron Wilde. The movie star? I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He had to go too.’ Yes, Antoinette killed Ron Wilde as well, but the actual details don’t matter. The spark of fear in Aidan’s eyes has turned into a full flame. ‘So I really do think that I have it in me to kill, Aidan.’ I hold the tip of the knife to his throat. ‘And I think I’m going to enjoy you the most.’

He gulps and then a horrible stench hits my nostrils.

It’s acrid and bleachy, ammonia.

Almost like really potent …

I glance at Aidan Ward’s crotch. A dark, damp stain has spread around the groin area of his jeans.

That’s disgusting.

The smell fills my nose again and I can feel my stomach clench.

I just about make it out of the cellar and into the kitchen before I throw my guts up into the sink.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe I do need Antoinette to help me with this after all.

I’ll wait until the morning and we can do it together.

43

Kitty and Antoinette’s Airbnb, West Hollywood, Los Angeles

I still feel a bit queasy when I wake up the next morning. I’m going to have to swing past a pharmacy and get something to settle my stomach if this continues. I can’t put it down to jet lag now. I must’ve picked up something on the plane. All that recycled air. Flying germ boxes. I check my phone and am surprised to see it’s almost eleven in the morning. I really must’ve been tired.

I stagger down to the kitchen, desperate for a coffee, and am surprised to find no sign of Antoinette yet either. No rogue coffee cups or glasses with the remnants of a green juice. No tell-tale toast crumbs on the counter and – I look around the kitchen – no sign of the milk being left out.

She must still be in bed. If she was up early for a yoga class or something, there would definitely be proof of life in here.

She must’ve come back late last night.

I was a bit hard on her actually. To make amends I decide to make her a nice breakfast for when she comes down. Antoinette isn’t vegan like me so we’ve got all sorts of gross things in the fridge like butter and eggs. I pop a couple of slices of sourdough into the toaster and crack two eggs to scramble for her. My poor stomach turns over on itself as I watch the snotty things plop into the pan. She’d better appreciate the sacrifice I’m making here.

I scramble the eggs, butter the toast, slice up some avocado and make a cafetière of coffee. But when I’m done there’s still no sign of my sister. It’s almost half past eleven now. I have a quick root around in the kitchen cupboards and find a tray. I’ll take her breakfast in bed. That – along with the news that I’ve decided I do need her help to kill Aidan Ward – should cheer her up. And maybe an apology. I was a bit harsh on her last night. She was only trying to help me. If I’d seen that horrible sleaze-weasel pawing at her, I’d probably have stabbed him in the neck too.