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No one could ever call me Florence Nightingale, but I knew my way around first aid. I’d taken CPR and a few other EMT classes prior to switching my major to elementary education, much to the chagrin of my father. He’d wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer, but his reasons had little to do with skill or what I wanted. He’d merely called my brother a fuckup then placed the burden on my shoulders to ensure the family’s reputation would be upheld.
I’d often wondered as what exactly, card carrying hypocrites?
At least I’d been able to use the special training to determine Charlotte didn’t have any broken bones. However, since she’d allowed me to help her remove her dress, mostly at my insistence, I’d finally seen the number of partially healed bruises she’d managed to hide.
She’d been used as a punching bag by some asshole. My bet was on Santiago, but she’d continued to insist he hadn’t been the one to cause her pain. I bought it like I did little green men were about to invade the Earth. She’d clammed up after that and I’d spent time fuming, pacing the floor.
Her warning had rattled me, but not enough to reconsider finding out everything I could about what was going on.
After convincing Charlotte to take a bath, I’d put her to bed. When she woke up, she and I were going to have a long talk. If not, I’d shake her until she confessed.
I’d returned to the living room, trying to think about what to do. That had been almost an hour before with no decent results.
Granted, I could say something to Jameson, but if I did, I had a feeling he’d be the big he-man all over again, getting himself killed while trying to protect me. What if I found us a different place to live?
Laughable at this point unless Charlotte had squirreled away money.
There was no way for me to solve anything this afternoon given I had to head to work in a few hours. When I heard a knock on the door, I immediately froze. Charlotte had plenty of friends. That much I knew. I moved closer to the door, eyeing the thick piece of steel as if it would provide answers as to who stood on the other side.
With no peephole and no chain like the doors on my parents’ house, I’d get no advance warning. However, if it was a friend, maybe I could glean information. I took cautious steps closer, almost yelping with whoever it was pounded on the door.
“Who is it?” I barked, deepening my voice.
“Cut the crap, Char. It’s me.”
That meant she hadn’t mentioned she had someone living with her. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Yeah, I bet,” the guy snorted. “Just open the fucking door. I will knock it down if I need to. Don’t fuckin’ piss me off.”
Don’t piss him off? I’d shifted into the livid side. “Hold on. Let me grab a robe.” I coughed so the asshole wouldn’t figure out he wasn’t talking to Char. Then I grabbed my phone so I could call the police. After flying by the kitchen, I stopped. Then I moved toward the butcher block, grabbing a knife. A girl couldn’t be too safe. I shoved the phone in my pocket then hid the knife behind my back before opening the door.
I was greeted with a dozen roses shoved in my face.
“Take these. I was told to bring them to you. The boss wants to make certain you’re okay.”
I backed away, allowing them to drop to the floor.
“What the fuck?” Whoever he was snarled, his angry glare not registering I wasn’t Charlotte for at least five full seconds. Then he stomped on the flowers as he came inside, slamming the door behind him. “You’re not Char.”
“Oh, look. The Neanderthal has a brain larger than a pea.” My rage was doing the talking but I was not going to allow her to stay mixed up with these animals.
He seemed confused I would dare talk to him that way. As we did our version of a stare off, I realized something just as sickening as the fact the killer was only a few feet away from me. He was also the driver who’d almost run me down.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.
“I should ask the same question.”
“My friends call me the Killer.”
“And my friends call me the Slicer.” What was I doing challenging him?
As he took another step closer, I refused to back away. “You’re a funny girl.”
“So I’ve been told. I’m going to ask you nicely to leave.”
“Nicely, huh? I can’t do that.”
When his eyes flitted toward the hallway, I yanked the knife in front of me, pointing the blade at his jugular. “Yes, you can.”
