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So, yeah, blending wasn’t always a good thing. Sometimes it behooved you to stand out, take it from me.
Once the man’s stomach was clean of blood, I took everything to the bathroom. I rinsed out the towel I’d used to clean him up, along with the towel I’d pressed against his wound before I could get to it. I poured some peroxide onto the really bloody parts and scrubbed to get as much of it out as possible. Leaving a bunch of bloodied towels would make it obvious something had happened in here.
Once the towels were pretty clean—or as clean as I could get them; parts of them were still a little pink, but most of the offending red blood had either washed out or faded to an appropriate color—I stopped what I was doing and sighed.
Leaning on the counter before the mirror, I stared down at my hands in the sink. My fingertips were pinker than normal from Brett’s blood, and I took them out of the sink and stared down at them. It was too easy for me to imagine them coated in a thick, dark red hue.
I tore my gaze off my hands and set them on the rim of the sink, curling them into it. A slight pressure built in my chest, as if warning bells were finally going off in my head.
I had a killer tied up in the room adjacent to this. I’d hit him with my car, picked him up, and brought him to a shitty motel when I found out he was wanted in connection to at least four murders.
What was I doing?
I didn’t need him to help. I didn’t need him at all. This was a dumb idea and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to calculate how bad the outcome was going to be.
So what if I had a stalker? So what if I didn’t know who he was? So what if that stalker got so bold he broke into my room at night and drew pictures of me sleeping? It wasn’t like that stalker could hurt me worse—he couldn’t do anything to me that hadn’t already been done.
Maybe a dark, twisted part of me wanted Brett to killme. At least it would all be over, and I wouldn’t be stuck pretending to be happy all the time, acting like I was just a normal girl.
Or maybe I wanted Brett to kill my stalker, whoever the fuck he was. Maybe I wanted to unleash a hell upon my stalker so strong and so violent he couldn’t begin to escape. Maybe, before I died, I wanted certain people to get their comeuppance.
Was it wrong to wish death upon someone else? I didn’t care.
I straightened my back and pushed off the sink. I left the towels in the sink, wet, and walked out of the bathroom. I still didn’t know how I was going to go about this, but one thing was for sure: I thought I had more time.
Turned out, I didn’t, because as I walked out of the bathroom and saw the open eyes of my kidnapped killer, I wanted to throw up from the nerves.
Brett Banks was awake, and he was staring right at me.
Chapter Three – Brett
My body felt like it had been hit by a train. A big fucking train, going very fucking fast. I tried to groan and stir, tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. Everything was too much. With how badly every part of me ached, I almost forgot about the sharp, fiery pain in my gut—the stab wound.
Everything was a blur in my head. I remembered bringing that bitch to the barn, showing her the body I’d spent hours working on, and then… then what? Then the bitch had stabbed me with a bone or some shit, and I’d gotten her with the needle before she could finish the job.
It was stupid of me to let her get that close to the body. If there was anything I’d learned from my cousin’s fate, it was that girl was a resourceful one. I could respect it, if her resourcefulness hadn’t led to my cousin’s death.
And then what happened? I’d fallen to the ground, tore the bone out, and then… the pain had dictated my actions. I managed to get up and leave that barn. My thought process was that I had to save myself first. Get somewhere safe, stop the bleeding, and then go back for her.
I’d neglected to realize just how bad the wound was, and how fast I’d lose blood. In the end, I’d dumped my car on the side of the road, along with my wallet, though I’d kept all the cash. Didn’t want anyone tracking me using my bank card, now that that bitch would tell the world about me. Going after her was impossible; by the time I’d get myself fixed up, her precious Montgomerys would be there, waiting for me.
And then, when I’d realized that, I’d wandered.
And then…
Damn it. No wonder I felt like I’d been hit by a train—I vaguely remembered walking along the road and getting hit by a fucking car. Add that on top of the wound in my gut; let’s just say my day hadn’t been the greatest.
Everything got hazy after that. I couldn’t remember much of anything, but I swear, after hitting the ground, I’d muttered the words “No hospital.” My face would be plastered on every local TV station for a while; I had to lay low—and finding myself in the hospital would be the opposite of that.
No. I couldn’t let the police take me until I finished what I’d started. Brianna Montgomery had to die.
I couldn’t quite open my eyes, but I didn’t hear any beeping. No machines near me, which told me I wasn’t in the hospital. I tried to move my arms, but they were locked in place for some reason. Wherever I was, I was stuck, and my stomach felt like it was on fire.
My eyelids refused to work for the longest time, but eventually they managed to crack open, and then it became easier to open them all the way. What I saw surprised me in more ways than one.
A shitty, smelly motel room. That’s where I was. Somehow I found myself here instead of the hospital. Huh. Go figure that one. And not only that, but my arms seemed to be stretched and tied using old bed sheets to the corner posts of the bed I was in. I tugged at them with what little strength I could muster—and to no one’s surprise, I couldn’t get free.
I was too weak. My body too beat up. All I could do was sit there and wonder just how the fuck I got here.
