Chapter Twenty Saylor #2
“Come on,” Julian says, sounding almost bored. “If you’re going to do this, do it. Stop standing there looking like you’re
about to cry.”
“I’m not going to cry.” Even though my eyes are definitely watering. “I’m just figuring out the best approach.”
“The best approach is to get it over with. Some of us have places to be.”
He sighs loudly and then again over-dramatically.
“Look, Blue,” Julian says, turning his attention away from me. “Can’t you just step in here? Put me out of my misery? At least
let me die with some dignity by the hands of the infamous Blue instead of whatever this amateur hour bullshit is.”
Blue’s response comes out strained, like the words are fighting their way past his throat. “Sorry, Julian. I’m retired. This
is Saylor’s show now.”
“Your retirement is going to get me tortured to death by someone who can’t figure out which end of a knife is sharp,” Julian
says with genuine disgust.
I can feel Blue’s tension radiating from across the room, can practically hear him reconsidering this entire plan.
I raise the knife again, aiming for his throat because that seems efficient. But as I bring the blade closer to his skin,
my stomach revolts. The metal is maybe two inches from his neck when I freeze completely.
“Jesus Christ,” Julian mutters. “Just push it in. It’s not complicated.”
“Stop talking. You’re making this harder.”
“How am I making it harder? You point the pointy end at me and apply pressure. My little nephew could figure this out.”
I press the tip of the blade against Julian’s throat, barely touching skin. The contact makes him stiffen, but he doesn’t make a sound. I can see where the knife point has just barely pierced him, the tiniest drop of blood welling up like a scarlet bead.
“Ow,” Julian says dryly. “That really stings. Are you planning to kill me one cell at a time?”
I grit my teeth and press harder, trying to coach myself through it. It’s just like cutting into a steak, I tell myself. Just
meat. Just flesh. People do this at dinner tables every night without puking all over themselves. The blade sinks in maybe
a quarter inch, and suddenly there’s more blood—a thin red line trickling down his neck like some grotesque necklace.
Julian hisses. “Well, that’s slightly more progress. At this rate, I’ll bleed out sometime next Thursday.”
The sight of that crimson trail makes my stomach clench violently. My vision starts to tunnel, and I can taste bile rising
in my throat. I pull the knife back, waving it around wildly as panic sets in.
“I can’t do this,” I gasp, flailing the blade through the air as I pace. “This is insane. I can’t actually—”
“Jesus, watch where you’re swinging that thing,” Julian says, trying to lean his chair away from my erratic movements.
“I thought I could do it but I can’t!” I’m gesticulating frantically now, knife cutting through the air in wide arcs as the
words tumble out. “This is crazy. I’m not a killer, I’m a jazz singer from New York who can barely kill a spider without calling
my neighbors for help!”
“Could you maybe put the knife down while you have your breakdown?” Julian suggests with the weary patience of someone who’s
dealt with hysterical amateurs before.
“This is supposed to be easy!” I cry out, slashing the air with wild, exaggerated motions. “You just stab, or slice, and—”
I demonstrate with frantic gestures, the razor-sharp blade cutting dangerous arcs through the air.
“I wanted to be strong enough,” I continue, gesticulating emphatically as I talk. “I wanted to prove that I could—”
The knife slices through the air in a wide arc as I wave my hands, and suddenly Julian’s complaining stops. His eyes go wide, then confused, then oddly peaceful as a thin red line opens across his throat like a zipper.
For a moment, we all just stare at each other.
“Huh,” Julian manages to say, blood bubbling from his lips. “Well, that’s one way to—”
And then he’s gone.
I look down at the knife in my hand, then at Julian slumped in his chair, then back at the knife.
“Oh god,” I whisper. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
Blue moves to my side, and I can feel his hand hovering near my shoulder, like he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure I’ll
let him. When he speaks, his words carry the faintest trace of what might be amusement. “Well. That was . . . unexpected.”
“I killed him,” I say, my voice climbing toward hysteria. “I killed him by accident. Who does that? Who accidentally murders
someone?”
“Technically, you still murdered him,” Blue points out helpfully. “The method was just . . . unconventional.”
My stomach chooses that moment to revolt completely. I drop the knife and barely make it three steps before Wren’s perfect
breakfast comes back up in violent waves.
“This is harder than it looks,” I say weakly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Most first kills are,” Blue says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh. “Though I’ll admit, I’ve never seen one accomplished
through interpretive dance.”
My stomach lurches again at the sight of Julian’s lifeless form, and I press my hand to my mouth. “Oh god, I think I’m going
to be sick again.”
I stumble up the stone steps, leaving Blue and Julian’s very dead body behind. By the time I reach my room, I’m running. I
slam the door and lock it, then collapse onto the four-poster bed still wearing my perfect polka dot dress.
I killed him. I actually killed him.
By accident.
While having a panic attack.
This is either the most pathetic victory in the history of revenge, or the most ridiculous tragedy in the history of murder. I’m not sure which is worse.
But lying there staring at the painted ceiling, I can’t shake the image of Julian’s surprised expression when he realized
he was dying, or the way his blood looked so much redder than I’d expected.
I did it. I killed one of my father’s murderers.
Even if I did it completely by accident while waving a knife around like a deranged conductor.
God, what must Blue think? I was supposed to be some dangerous femme fatale, not a disaster who accidentally murders people
and then pukes everywhere.
And with that thought . . . I bolt for the bathroom.