A Deadly Promise of Punishment

Stab Him to Death

April

I hate the rain.

The darkness. The thunder and lightning. And him.

It always brings him.

Storm clouds loom over the historic farmhouse in the distance, stirring a dread I haven’t felt in three months. But his Bentley isn’t parked out front, just Mom’s old Mercedes, so he couldn’t be home.

“Are you sure this is close enough?” Amara, my bestie’s mom, asks from behind the wheel. “I could drop you at the house. I’m already here.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want you to be late to work because of me.”

She probably is. Driving me home wasn’t the plan. I was prepared to make the hour-long journey on foot, but the storm rolled in off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard earlier than the forecast predicted.

Last night was my first sleepover. I’d never had one before, too afraid to leave Mom alone.

She wouldn’t trust me to stay with just anyone either.

Amara is her best friend and co-worker. They both clean houses for wealthy families who don’t like their employees to be late.

Or sick, or have a life, or any personal issues. They want robots.

“You better hur—” Thunder booms, swallowing Amara’s word and shaking the car.

I flinch and stare at the angry sky as shivers slide over my skin. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Thanks again for having me over and for the ride.” I hop out and run.

My sneakers crunch gravel, and wind lashes me with debris.

I’m halfway up the long driveway when the clouds open as quickly as I could unzip my hoodie.

Lightning flashes, brightening the darkened sky, followed by a violent thunderclap.

A squeal tears from my throat, and my gaze catches on something silver jutting out from behind the house.

Dad’s Bentley. No!

I run faster, reaching the front porch and taking the stairs two at a time. My wet fingers feel clumsy as I dig the key from my backpack and unlock the bolt. When I shove open the door, my blood runs cold.

The vase and pedestal near the staircase lays smashed on the floor, crystal shards scattered everywhere. A Tiffany lamp hangs off the couch cushion by its cord, and Mom’s jacket trails toward the kitchen archway like she tore free of it trying to escape.

Mom! I drop my backpack and run. The heavy rain drowns out the thud of my shoes as I follow the trail of destruction.

Lightning flickers, throwing white slashes across the wood-paneled walls. A squeal claws up my throat. I choke it back and skid to a halt at the archway. The air hits me first, sweat and alcohol.

Dad is on his knees, straddling Mom’s motionless body. Purple bruises bloom across her tan skin. Angry finger marks band her neck, and her eyes are swollen into slits.

My heart plummets.

He finally did it. He killed her, and I wasn’t here to protect her.

“I told you this would happen,” he grumbles, his voice calm and empty as he stares down at her battered face. “I warned you.”

A broken moan slips through Mom’s cracked lips.

She’s alive!

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my love. Death is the only way.” His thick fingers lock around her throat.

Ice floods my veins, and something inside me snaps. My gaze catches on the chef’s knife lying on the counter. A second later, it’s in my hand, the blade sinking into my dad’s back. I rip it free and drive it into him again and again, wishing with all my heart he would die.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! ” The words tear from me, ragged and choked with hot tears.

He roars and elbows me hard in the stomach. I stumble backward, crashing into the lower cabinets.

Quicker than I expect, he lurches to his feet and grapples for the knife stuck in his shoulder blade. When he finally yanks it free, the murderous gleam in his eyes says I’m going to pay.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the blood coating the blade.

Adrenaline floods my veins, setting my limbs on fire.

I bolt. Across the living room and up the stairs, with Dad on my heels.

My heart hammers as I race down the hallway toward my bedroom.

I throw myself inside, slam the door, and turn the lock.

It won't keep him out for long.

He rams his weight against the wood with a thunderous boom.

“Let me in!” The handle judders. Then he’s pounding on the door, the wood jerks against its hinges.

I stumble back and dive under my bed, wedging myself against the wall.

No one will come to save us. This house sits deep inland, hidden on a stretch of private acreage, where no one hears our screams. If by some miracle the police came, Dad wouldn’t get arrested.

His family is too prominent and powerful.

Even though his parents cut him off, he’s still a Farrington, and they’ll do whatever they must to protect the family name.

“This is your fault,” Dad yells. “You turned her against me. You made her hate me.” More pounding. Each punch makes me shudder harder.

“Let me in, goddammit!”

I don’t know how the door is holding, but I’m sure it won’t last. Any second, he’ll get in. Any second…

Tears stream down my face as I brace for what comes next. The banging stops suddenly. Cold silence fills the air as I hold my breath and listen.

Did he get in? Is this how I die?

Rain patters against the window as my body quivers harder. Nothing stirs in the room. I don’t trust it. Lightning flashes, the thunder following moments later, distant now. I still don’t move, straining to hear over the slowing rain. Not knowing what’s about to happen is a different kind of fear.

Did he leave to get something else to break down the door? Could he have crashed out? It wouldn’t be the first time he did during an assault. Sometimes he drops, like his drugged body can’t handle the adrenaline rush.

When nothing sounds, a terrible thought takes hold of me. What if he’s finishing off Mom? What if he’s stabbing her? Oh god!

I force myself out from under the double-sized bed. The door is still closed. He hadn’t gotten in. That doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting for me to emerge.

My heart hammers in my ears as I strain to hear any sounds on the other side of the door. After a moment of nothing, I carefully open it and creep down the dim hallway, my breathing loud and fast.

A bloody trail leads downstairs and across the living room to the kitchen. I grab the Tiffany lamp from the couch and inch toward the archway. The rain falls as soft as a whisper now. With a tight grip on the base of the lamp, I peer into the kitchen.

Mom’s alone, and I don’t see any more injuries or blood. Thank God!

Relief loosens my lungs for half a second before dread twists in my gut. If Dad isn’t here, where did he go?

In the past, he’d sometimes hide, making us think he was gone when he was really waiting to attack.

I edge to the dining room and glance inside. Nothing. The family room is empty too.

I check on Mom again, then listen for any sound that might give away his hiding spot. My hands shake as I tighten my grip on the lamp. Rain falls gently. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off. Nothing else stirs.

Holding my breath, I inch to the laundry room and the back door, peering out the window. The gravel parking spot is empty.

He’s gone. Air bursts from my lungs, catching on a sob. Then I’m running to Mom.

I drop to my knees beside her battered body and check for a pulse.

Faint, but there. Another sob escapes me.

She needs an ambulance, but I can’t call 911.

Her biggest fear is the hospital will report the abuse, CPS will decide she’s unfit, and I’ll end up in foster care.

She didn’t have a good experience in the system and has done everything possible to keep me from suffering the same fate.

That leaves one person who I can trust. Amara. She probably just started work, but there’s no one else who can help us. She understands when it comes to the law, because of Dad’s family, we’re on our own.

Quickly, I find Mom’s phone on the counter and text Amara our code for an emergency.

Then I check Mom’s wounds, clean and bandage her up, and wait for help to arrive.

With her head resting on my lap, I brush my fingers through her hair and hum the soothing tune she used to sing to put me to sleep as a child.

I tell her I love her and that I’ll make sure this never happens again as long as she lives.

Because she has to live.