Page 39 of No One Has To Know

I… I missed. Imissed.

Still cuffed, Carter can’t do anything but writhe as blood pours from the hole I just shot in his shoulder.

Oh, wait. He can.

In between panting, he curses me like I’m a devil. Not once does he use my name which only reinforces my suspicion that he lied to Burns. He has no idea who I am. I’m just another pretty face in a long line of girls he tried—and often succeeded in—fucking.

As for me, I don’t know what else to do but stand there and take it. The idea to raise the gun never even crosses my mind.

It does Burns’s. Easing the gun out of my loose grip, he aims and fires, shooting Carter dead in the chest. The heart, most likely, because he drops instantly.

Shuts up, too.

“You shouldn’t have called her a ‘bitch’,” Burns mutters, stalking over to the body and giving it one last kick for good measure.

After checking the safety on his gun, he pockets it again, then turns to me.

The only thought I have is to go to him.

It’s only as Burns pulls me into his arms, stroking my back as I clamp my eyes shut, that I realize it never even occurred to me to turn the gun on him when I had the chance.

15

ANGELA

Burns takes care of the corpse.

He waits until I’m steady enough to pull out of his arms before he tells me to sit down. Wordlessly, I obey him. Dropping my head in my hands, I peek through the slivers in my fingers as he hefts Carter’s body off the floor and disappears up the steps with him.

I don’t know how long he’s gone. It feels like no time at all, though I’m sure it has to be an hour or more at least. I busied myself by gathering the scattered rose petals on the floor and trying to salvage as much of the flower that I can. A sick part of me wants to press it between the pages of my botany book, a memento from this dark night.

Because I like the idea of doing that far too much, I force myself to toss it in the garbage pail. The blood spray covering the floor has got to go, too, I decide.

I go back to the cot when I hear the door to the basement open again. The second I plop down, I realize that I’m too wound up to sit, so I’m standing again as Burns reappears.

There’s a mess of blood on his hands, on his t-shirt, all over his once-white sneakers. Dirt, too. A smear covers his cheek, highlighting just how dangerous he appears right now.

Or maybe that’s the gun he has in his hand again.

I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. Taking a step toward him, I pause when he stops at the base of the stairs. “Is everything—”

Look at me. I can’t bring myself to say it.

I don’t have to.

“It’s taken care of. You okay, angel?”

I nod. “You?”

Something’s different about Burns. Like a powder keg about to explode, I can sense him thrumming in place, as though one spark is going to set him off. He’s not usually like this. That’s one thing I can say. For good or for bad, what I see is what I get with him. If he’s holding something back, there’s a reason.

And I’m not so sure I want to know what it is.

He obviously doesn’t want to discuss what just happened. Maybe it’s because he’s gauging my reaction, waiting for me to fall apart. I mean, I did just witness him torture and execute Carter Santorino right in front of me—and that was after I shot a gun for the first time in my life.

Yeah. It’s probably that one.

Only… I’m not. I wasn’t lying. When I said I was okay, I meant it. Sure, I could be better, but I have to look at the bright side: Carter is dead. Gone. Burns killed him, and I’ll never have to worry about him coming after me again.

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