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The sobs don’t twist her face now. But the tears flow freely. Even strands of her hair start to clump together from the salty tears, but she just sniffs back the stuffy feeling in her nose.
“You just couldn’t handle the guilt of what you did, could you?” Trevor goes on, but she’s hardly listening anymore, she’s lost in the abyss of her looming fate, the death she’s owed but aches to run from. “You didn’t just murder Henry. You butchered him. That took a toll, Billie. Drinking yourself to death, but that was too slow. You snapped. So did Tonya. And, together, you made sure every one of you in the car that night got what was coming to them.”
With a gravelly sound, she turns herself around until she’s flat on her back… and looking up at the true face of Blood Hood.
And she smiles.
It’s a pained smile, watery and quivering.
But it’s enough to have Trevor’s brow lift above his darkening eyes, deep blue oceans without any depth in them.
His upper lip curls over perfectly white and straight teeth, teeth she imagines could tear a chunk of flesh clean out of her. “This is funny to you?”
She almost laughs. Laughs at the predictability of, not just Trevor but, guys like him. Their fucking egos. He’s about to murder her in cold blood… and still, heneedsto know why she mocks him.
A little bitch. He always was.
That pained, sick smile still slapped across her face, Billie croaks, “You didn’t care about Henry. This ain’t about him.”
“Henry was a friend.”
She shakes her head, a weak gesture that has damp tear-stained hair sticking to her temples. “Preston is your friend. Your only real one.” This time, the laugh breaks free. Comes out as more of a choke through her strangled throat. “I’d believe you if… if Preston was the one we killed… But Henry?”
“I’ll give you that.” Trevor nods once, something slow and thoughtful. “Henry isn’t the whole reason, no.ButPreston?” He starts with a bitter half-smile, so bitter that it poisons the air in the corridor and prickles her skin. “You know this is for him, don’t you?”
“No…” A grunt catches in her throat as she maneuvers her aching body to lift up and lean on her elbows digging into the floor. “He would never—”
“What? Would never kill you?” Trevor’s half-smile splits into a grin. “No, he wouldn’t. Because hecan’t. I’m doing him a favor. He’ll come to see that. Besides, I do need someone to pin this on now that Kate’s in her little coma… Think of it as a promotion. You’re my new Blood Hood.”
Billie’s heels dig into the floor and, weakly, she forces her back along the vinyl. She tries to push herself away from him—but manages only a couple of inches. It’s useless.
And she feels that.
A whine crawls out her throat and she turns her cheek to the side, as though Trevor will vanish if she isn’t looking at him.
Just the opposite happens.
“Now,” he practically purrs with glee, and crouches over her, “let’s get you into that wheelchair.”
Billie cries out as he snatches up a fistful of her hair. A fistful too close to the scalp, and her skin burns in protest. Her hands hit out aimlessly at him, legs kicking and flailing at nothing but air.
Trevor is unaffected. In fact, it’s exactly how he wants it—the smears of her blood spread out all over the tiles, and if anyone bothers to trace the smears, it’ll look like she’s dragged herself from her bed to the nurse’s station.
It will look just like he said it would. That she stole Preston’s gun, knocked him out, dragged herself up here, shot the nurse, then got into the chair with one final destination in mind: Kate’s room in the ICU.
He hoists her up and her scream ricochets down the corridor. He drags her writhing body all the way up to the nurse’s desk.
Then his hand loosens in her hair but doesn’t let go completely. She’s still tangled to him, hair threaded around his fingers, locked in place. And he reaches for the wheelchair around the corner, his fingertips grazing the edge of its arm.
But Billie’s not trying to yank away, to escape—not when her gaze lands on the nurse behind the desk. She’s slumped back in her swivel chair, the spill of dark brown liquid (coffee, Billie guesses) down the front of her scrubs, and a red dot pierced into the middle of her forehead. Gunshot.
Trevor wasn’t lying.
He’s cleaning house, and doesn’t care who he has to go through to do it.
But—
Something he didn’t think of. The security camera tucked up in the corner of the ceiling. Sure, cams are grainy and blurred, hardly better than any webcam those rich folk have stuck on top of their home computers. Fancy, but the image is always too grainy.
