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My head feels like it is burning, likely to explode at any moment. My lungs aching, begging for air. Vaguely, I’m aware of the agony of his fingers digging into my throat. Around the edges my vision feels fuzzy, my body slowly relaxing.
Sharp pin pricks sprinkle over my skin. I blink. Reed’s arm is reaching through broken glass overhead unlocking the doors. Across from me Landon flings open the driver door, Knox and him pulling at Ronan with shaking force.
Their efforts allow me one large gasping gulp of air. Cool air hits the back of my throat almost as painfully as Ronan’s hands grip me again.
My hand drops to my side, a jagged object slicing at my fingertips. Fumbling numb fingers surround the large piece of glass.
I don’t care that it’s cutting deeply into my palm.
Just as the thought blooms in my mind, I slam the sliver into the side of Ronan’s throat. His fingers slacken around my neck as wide eyes look down on me in disbelief. Crimson red stains bloom over my clothing, more blood pooling out of the wound than I thought possible.
His eyes are so big. Ronan Reyes looks… scared. Possibly the only time I’ve ever seen him not angry. Most definitely the last. I rip the glass back out and let the full heat of that gushing blood rain across my palms, my body, my face.
Breath scratches my throat at every inhale and exhale. Two strong hands pull me away, Knox and Landon flinging Ronan out of the vehicle. Blood gurgles in his mouth with every failing attempt at breathing.
Knox’s brown eyes, wide and searching meet mine. “It’s okay,” he whispers, holding his hands out as if to steady me from a distance. Wheezing, I lean into Reed and give Knox a small nod. My hands brush my own neck thinking back over the last reckless three minutes.
In that short time, I just killed my tormentor.
My bully.
My father.
Thirty-Eight
Dee
Red and blue flashing lights bathe the beautiful Reyes estate. Somehow it looks much less frightening with the colors bouncing off the old brick than when the sun hit it the first day I came here. Maybe that’s because the monster that lived here is dead.
Still other similarities can’t be ignored. Delores’ face is pressed against the iron fence between the houses. Though this time her eyes are more curious than warning. That is until she actually sees me. Her small mouth falls open and with a swish of her pearly white dress she runs away toward the safety of her house.
The front steps are littered with the staff that was present tonight. All of them completely, and thankfully, unable to confirm or deny if they heard anything. Mr. Heethers smiles at me reassuringly from the small distance.
“Mr. Reyes?” He looks at Knox.
Knox frowns, but glances his way, not leaving my side for an instant.
Mr. Heethers tilts his head. “Shall I get a sweater for... Violet? The wind is quite cold.”
Knox glances at me then nods in answer.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, bile threatening to come up. I glance at my hands. Both are still coated with blood, trembling. My face is wiped clean but I know it’s just as stained. My whole body is a shaky mess of nerves, dread, and a little bit of dare I say relief.
The staff doesn’t act surprised by the turn of events. While they first appeared stunned, most are now happily waiting on the four of us. Not that we have many, or any, requests. It’s like some sort of baton has been passed down and it’s landed right in Knox’s hands.
Nearby a stretcher rolls over the rocky driveway with the perfectly white sheet covering a body.
My father’s body.
Staring at it makes my mind flash back to every endless second in that car. Every terrifying moment where I knew I was going to die. The moment I likely should have died.
A soft hand interlaces through my fingers, pulling my hand away from my throat. I didn’t realize I was touching the places that are already bruising. Landon shakes his head oh so very slightly. A silent command not to draw attention like that.
No one has explained to the cops why my voice is so hoarse and my neck is already bruising.
Police and paramedics flood us with questions. I feel like I’m drowning in their inquiring skepticism. Somehow Knox evades their questions with ease. He dodges them like he’s lied to the police his entire life.
Officer Rowens keeps his pen hovering over his lined page as he glares at the tattooed teen in front of him. He doesn’t pretend that he believes us, with his fair features twisting in a judgmental annoyance and the roll of his blue-green eyes as if we can’t see him.
