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I’m not afraid because I’m alone in the dark and I don’t remember how I got here.
I’m afraid I might have killed Tamara.
The last thing I remember is her telling me that I was killing my father over and over again, then there was a sudden supernova of rage in my chest and I screamed at her to run.
And then everything went black and red, and I think I remember swinging my fists. I remember screams. I remember pain…
My knuckles are bleeding.
The fury she woke in me is still roaming inside me, a crazed beast that needs to rend flesh and snap bone. I suck in gulps of chilly night air and struggle to regain control.
She shouldn’t have said the things she said.
Even if they’re true.
Are they true?
I start jogging towards the house, weaving past the giant potted cactuses and the gurgling fountains, running at full speed. Oh God, what have I done to her?
Several of my men are standing by the back door, talking, but they all fall silent when I run past them. Their eyes stay fixed on me. I know I’m bloody. I must look crazed. I don’t have time to check my reflection in a damn mirror. I have to know. Did I hurt her? Did I kill her? Whose screams do I remember?
I can’t live with myself if I’ve killed her. It will be the end of me.
My heart slams against my ribcage as I tear through the house and into the TV room, where Tamara is sitting on the couch, talking to Astrid and the kids. She’s fine. Not a scratch on her that I can see.
Relief makes me dizzy, and I stagger back and lean against the wall. After a minute, I realize they’re all staring at me, wary, and Astrid’s kids are crowding closer to her on the couch. She’s got her arms around her two younger daughters, and Tamara’s moved to put her body between me and the boys.
I look down and realize that there’s blood streaming from my arms and my shirt is in tatters. I’m barefoot. How did I not notice that before?
I turn around without a word and head outside again.
Garrett approaches me as I walk through the backyard. “Sir? You all right?” He glances at my arms. I see little pieces of glass and plaster sticking to my wounds; I must have punched walls and mirrors.
I’m numb, in a trancelike state. “I’m sleeping outside,” I say.
“But you— Yes, sir.” He doesn’t like it, but he’s not going to argue.
When I reach a mesquite tree at the back of the property, I sink down underneath it, leaning back against the trunk. I stare down at the drying blood on my arms, but I can’t summon up the strength to wash it off and bandage my wounds.
I’ve never felt like this before. I’m filled with bitter, freezing despair that’s rising in my throat and choking me. If I’ve been killing men who resemble my father, if I’ve been letting him guide me and control my choices from beyond the grave, it means I never really escaped him after all. It means he still has a hold on me, after all these years.
The thought makes me sick.
How fucking weak am I?
And how could I not have known that?
The face of every one of my kills swims in front of my eyes, and I see she’s telling the truth. I have lied to myself my entire life. I don’t know myself at all.
The dark night swallows me, and I hear howls of rage and despair and realize they are tearing from my own throat, tearing me apart.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
TAMARA
Tamara, I used to think I was brave, but what I’m doing now is pure cowardice. I know you’ll never forgive me, and I do not deserve your forgiveness. Please know that I love you, and please know that I am doing this for you. I am breaking apart. I cannot control myself any longer. I cannot keep you safe from me. I haven’t slept in days, and I cannot tell the difference between nightmares and reality. There is a real risk of me killing you even in broad daylight.
I have to send you away.
