13. Esperr #3
I remember the sound of my father’s body hitting the floor behind us, the way I didn’t look—couldn’t—look.
Dean shifts his weight again, trying to pin my arms, and the present and the past fold into each other so tightly I can’t separate them. My chest tightens, vision blurring at the edges, but something inside me refuses to freeze like I did that first night.
My fingers drag across the ground until I hit something sharp.
Glass bites into my skin before I understand what I’ve found.
The cut is hot and immediate, grounding in a way that no one would understand.
I look over, my breath ragged, and there I see the jagged edge of a broken bottle glinting under the blurriness.
The memory pulls me back, the way his composure had cracked the moment I bit down hard enough to draw blood, how his calm slipped and had been replaced by surprise and then anger. How the tiny break in his control had been the only reason I’d gotten away.
Dean leans closer, breathing hot against my face, his grip tightening as he tries to force my arms down by my legs.
“You’re gonna make this worse,” he slurs, alcohol wafting from his mouth.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might split my ribs open.
I can’t do this again.
The alley feels small, closing in on us while the concrete becomes unforgiving beneath my spine. Dean’s weight presses down, heavy and careless, and in the space between one breath and the next. Memories and the present align so completely they feel like it’s like the same moment.
I tighten my grip on the broken glass, and in the next breath, I drive my hand forward, everything in me surging into that one desperate motion.
The glass is met with some resistance and then gives, sliding into the soft space at the side of his neck.
His sounds are cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, strangled noise that doesn’t quite sound human.
He jerks back, hands flying up, shock overtaking the cocky haze on his face, as warmth splashes across my knuckles.
I pull back without thinking, and the bottle clatters to the ground between us. For a single second, maybe two or three, neither of us moves. And then he’s stumbling, trying to get to his feet, but failing. His eyes widen and become even more unfocused before collapsing on the ground.
Scrambling backward, my breath comes in sharp, broken pulls as my hands continue to shake so badly I’m unable to make them stop.
For a moment, I just stare at him. My cheek is throbbing where he hit me, and heat radiates outward. When I press my tongue against my teeth, I taste blood along the inside of my lip. The metallic tang anchors me more than the pain does and the fact that he’s not moving.
I push myself up carefully, knees unsteady at first, and then I step closer, my converse scuffing lightly against the concrete.
“Dean?”
When I get no response, I crouch down beside him, keeping my distance from his hands. The blood at his neck spreads slowly into the uneven texture of the pavement, dark and wet. It looks almost unreal, but I’ve seen it before.
I press two fingers against the other side of his neck, his skin still warm but no pulse.
The realization doesn’t hit all at once but more like settling in layers.
Sitting back on my heels, I close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to let the night's cold air brush against my face and dull the ache in my cheek.
I should call the cops; he attacked me, hit me, and cornered me. He?—
My eyes open and glance around. The back door is shut, Jason is long gone, and there’s no security camera. The dumpster sits less than ten feet away, lid closed, wheels locked against the brick.
My mind begins to move in measured steps—trash pickup isn't until Tuesday, and it’s Saturday. That gives me time. His friends saw him leave; he was drunk, so I’m sure they’ll assume that he just wandered off. No one saw him come back here; no one saw him wait and follow me.
I reach for his jacket carefully, checking the pockets with methodical precision, my hands steadier now. Pulling out his phone, wallet, and key, I remove each of them, one by one, placing them beside me on the ground in a neat line.
Staring at his phone for a second longer than necessary because if he disappeared, his last location matters, which means his phone matters.
I could take it somewhere else, drop it into the lake, break it, and let it be found somewhere that isn’t here.
The plan builds slowly: how long it would take to move him and how to avoid leaving anything behind. Where I could drop his body off, or the pieces?—
Headlights flare suddenly against the brick wall by my leg. They’re bright enough to light the entire alleyway, stretching long shadows across the concrete, slicing over Dean’s body and catching the side of my face in its glare.
As much as I’m used to dead bodies, my heart lurches hard enough that I feel it in my throat again. The beam grows stronger as the vehicle pulls closer to me—to us—to the dead body I’m sitting next to.
And only now do I realize how utterly fucked I’m about to be.