Chapter One #2
That did it. Rick didn’t remember crossing the room or picking up the knife next to Graham. The cold metal felt right in his hand. It wasn’t a small one either. A steak knife with weight to it.
Next to him, Graham’s chair moved. “Rick, what the hell—”
Rick turned and faced him, the knife clenched in his fist.
Graham stood, hands out slightly, trying to calm him. His face had finally lost its composure. It held surprise and a hint of alarm. Maybe even some fear. “Put that down,” Graham said, voice firm. “Now.”
Rick’s breathing was loud. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips wrapped around the knife. Everything in him screamed. The humiliation, rage, and panic of being told he was nothing.
Graham took a step forward. Rick took a step forward, too. The distance between them closed. Rick didn’t think. He drove the knife into Graham’s stomach then stared at it, his eyes locked on where the handle protruded.
Graham froze, his eyes widening. His gaze dropped to the knife, then lifted to Rick’s face. Rick held onto the handle, ignoring the sticky, wet warmth spreading over his knuckles.
Graham’s mouth opened. A breath came out in a harsh, stunned sound. “Why?” Graham whispered.
Rick stared at him. For a second, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even process what he’d done. Graham’s hands came up, fumbling for the knife, trying to grab it, and Rick yanked it free and stared at the blood spilling from the wound.
Graham staggered back and clamped a hand over his stomach. His other hand gripped the edge of the table as his face twisted in pain, shock, and disbelief.
Rick’s vision narrowed. The room seemed too bright, each sound too loud. He panted as his grip tightened on the knife in his hand. “You don’t get to do that,” Rick said, voice ragged. “You don’t get to end me.”
Graham’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Rick stepped closer and stabbed Graham again. This time higher. Graham’s body jerked with the impact. His hand slid off the table and he weakly lifted it to push Rick away.
Rick pulled the knife out and stabbed again and again. He kept doing it until Graham’s legs gave out and he hit the floor, his legs knocking the chair sideways.
For a moment there was nothing but silence. Rick stood there with the knife in his hand, his chest heaving. Blood dotted his shirt, and there were warm splashes of it on his face.
He stared down at Graham’s body. His eyes were open, fixed on nothing. His mouth hung slightly open, his skin losing color now that his heart had stopped pumping blood around his body.
Rick’s hands began to shake as he continued to look at the body. The knife suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds. He lowered it slowly and placed it on the table. He backed up until his calves hit the dining chair, then he sat down hard.
For a long moment, he just stared at Graham. This couldn’t be real. He’d gone to dinner. He’d gone to talk. To convince Graham. To get him on side. He’d wanted… he’d wanted someone to believe in him again.
Now Graham was dead on his dining room floor.
Rick swallowed, his throat tight. His stomach churned, and he swallowed again. He waited for panic to swallow him whole, but it didn’t. Instead, something else slid into place. A switch flicked on in his mind. He needed to fix this.
Rick’s gaze flicked around the room, taking everything in. The candles, tablecloth, and wine glasses. The smears of blood. His footprints… He hadn’t stepped in it yet, had he? He looked down, seeing his shoes were clean, and sighed in relief. Good. He had to keep them clean.
He pushed up from the chair and moved carefully around the table to crouch next to Graham. The pool of blood was spreading, darkening the wooden floor. Rick stared at it, then at the wounds, then at Graham’s face.
A wave of nausea rose, and Rick pressed his fist to his mouth until it passed.
He couldn’t throw up. Not here. Not now.
He needed to keep focus. His mind began stacking problems and solutions, one after another, clean and fast. First was Graham’s phone.
It was on the counter. Rick walked over, picked it up with his sleeve over his hand, and stared at the screen.
No notifications or missed calls. No messages either.
Rick put it down again. He didn’t know the passcode, not that it mattered. He wasn’t going to use it. He just couldn’t leave it visible. He glanced around the room, then down at his hands.
Gloves. He needed gloves. He walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of yellow dish gloves and slid them on.
He looked at the knife with blood still wet on it.
He picked it up, carried it to the sink, and rinsed it.
The water turned red, then pink, then eventually clear.
He scrubbed it again and again and again, still seeing blood even though it had all washed away.
Once he was certain it was clean, he placed it on a towel and stared at it before moving on to the next job. His breathing steadied the longer he worked.
He could do this. He could handle this. People had accidents all the time. People made mistakes. People got away with things as well. He’d seen it in documentaries, in the headlines, in court cases that dragged on for years.
What Rick needed was a story. A great story that was believable.
Rick wiped the counter where water had splashed, then he went back into the dining room. The tablecloth was ruined. He grabbed it and tugged, pulling plates and cutlery into a clatter on the table as the cloth slid free. He bundled it tight, hiding the stains inside the folds.
He shouldn’t touch anything else without thinking. Every movement mattered now, especially if he was to make sure no evidence remained.
He looked down at Graham’s body again. He crouched and pressed two fingers to the side of Graham’s neck, and felt nothing. He didn’t feel relief. He didn’t feel grief. He felt… quiet. He stood and walked to the hallway, grabbed his coat, then stopped.
He was leaving too much evidence. He’d touched too many things. He went back inside and took every item from the table and put it in the dishwasher, then turned it on. He had to make it look as though Graham had still been alive after Rick had left.
Rick moved through the house, switching off lights he didn’t need, checking windows. He didn’t know why, but he did it anyway. Then he stopped in the living room and stared at the framed photos on the mantel.
Graham on a yacht with a woman Rick didn’t recognize.
Graham holding a newborn baby. Graham smiling at an awards show beside a singer Rick had once hated for stealing all the attention.
Graham had kept living after Rick’s career had stalled.
Rick’s hands curled into fists, and he turned away before the anger could rise again.
Back in the dining room, he stood over the body and forced himself to think like Graham would have thought.
If Graham vanished tonight, who would notice? A wife? No ring. Rick didn’t remember Graham ever marrying. A girlfriend? Maybe. Friends? Clients? People in the industry? He would have had plans. Meetings. Someone would call.
But would anyone think to connect it to Rick?
Rick pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to hold onto the thread of logic. He couldn’t stay here all night. He had to move Graham, or he had to make it look like something else.
A break-in? A robbery? A random attack? Graham lived in a safe neighborhood. It would raise questions.
Rick’s eyes dropped to the knife block in the kitchen. To the clean countertops, which were now too clean. He swallowed again. He needed time to plan properly, and that meant one thing. He couldn’t leave Graham where anyone might walk in.
Rick grabbed a second towel and threw it over the blood on the floor, absorbing it and stopping it from spreading. He went to the hall closet and found a roll of black trash bags. He tore off several and set them on the table, hands moving quickly now.
He didn’t know what he was doing, not really. He just knew he couldn’t stop moving, because if he did, he might fall apart, so he crouched again and reached for Graham’s wrists.
Wrapping his fingers around them, Rick could feel Graham’s skin was already cooling. He flinched, then tightened his grip.
“Okay,” Rick murmured. “Okay. Okay.” He dragged the body a few inches, then paused. The sound was worse than the sight. The scrape of cloth against wood. The dead weight of a man who would never move again.
Rick paused, breathing hard and looking away. His mind flashed with a memory of Graham laughing in a studio years ago, clapping Rick on the back, telling him, This is it. This is your moment.
Rick squeezed his eyes shut. That memory didn’t help right then. He opened his eyes and looked down at Graham’s blank face. He expected to feel horror. Instead, a sick, quiet satisfaction slid through him. Graham wouldn’t tell him no ever again.
Rick’s stomach turned at the thought. Not because it was wrong, but because it felt good. He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down because right then he had to focus on the job at hand. He hauled Graham another foot and then another.
He needed to get him somewhere out of sight, but where? Basement? Garage? Somewhere he could buy time and think. Rick’s gaze flicked toward the back door, toward the dark yard beyond it.
A plan began to form, thin and shaky. He could move him. He could clean more later. He could—
A sound cut through the silence.
Rick froze, his head snapping up. He paused and listened, but only heard the sounds of the house.
His pulse hammered anyway. He listened again, holding his breath and closing his eyes, concentrating on the house and the sounds it made.
When he heard nothing else, Rick slowly exhaled.
He couldn’t do this in the open. Not here.
Not with his hands shaking and his mind racing.
Letting go of Graham, Rick straightened, wiping his gloved hands on his jeans. He walked to the sink and leaned against the counter and stared at the dark window.
His reflection stared back, showing blood flecks on his cheek. A man with wide eyes who looked…shocked. Rick lifted his hand and touched his cheek where the blood had dried, not recognizing himself.
Or maybe Rick did. Maybe this was who he’d been all along, buried under the interviews and fake smiles and perfect hair.
He took a shaky breath and straightened.
He couldn’t stay like this. He grabbed paper towels, wet them, and wiped his face clean.
He scrubbed at his shirt where blood had spattered, but it only smeared.
Rick needed to change. He’d need to ditch the clothes. Right now, he needed to move. Rick went back into the dining room and stared down at Graham one more time.
The manager lay twisted on the floor where Rick had left him. The candlelight made the blood look darker almost black, and Rick’s throat tightened. He forced himself to speak, low and firm, as he gave himself an order.
“Do it,” he said.
He bent down, took hold of Graham again, and dragged him toward the back of the house.