Chapter 10
KAYLA
He’s out cold. I poke him just to make sure. But he doesn’t even move. With both hands, I lay the fleece blanket over him before I tiptoe out of there.
I feel almost guilty for what I did, but not guilty enough not to have done it.
Grabbing my duffel, I quietly slip out of the house and lock the door behind me.
Hopefully he doesn’t wake up until after I leave. But those meds should give me a couple of hours, and that’s all I’ll need.
With a black hood over my head, my clothes the same color, I strut a few long blocks, two cars whizzing past before I stop at the house fifteen minutes later. It’s dark inside, and a blue sedan is in the driveway.
My pulse pumps rapidly and my body flutters with adrenaline. With rage.
I’m doing the right thing. He doesn’t deserve to be alive. But I can fix that.
Quietly, I open the latch to the back gate and slip inside. With thick black, leather gloves, I check the back door, hoping it’s open. Or I’ll have to resort to breaking the glass and opening it myself. But I’m prepared for that.
I took A’s advice to heart. My bag is full of useful things. He’d be proud.
And I wonder if he’s here. If he’s watching me.
The knob turns, and a grin draws up my face.
I pull air into my lungs, and my stomach churns from fear. Anticipation. But thrill too. It’s all there in this moment. Like that feeling I’d get when my favorite roller-coaster ride would slowly climb up, higher and higher, until that first big drop. Then chaos.
I live in chaos now.
I let myself in, then shut the door as quietly as possible.
Except for the small table lamp, there’s only darkness here. A single staircase to my right.
It’s late. Fred Avon is probably upstairs sleeping, which will make killing him a lot easier.
I want his tears. I want to watch him as he realizes this is the end.
It’s as I’m about to kill this man that those faces flash before my eyes: those men, all the ones who did despicable things to us and laughed. I can hear it. Thick, cunning laughter.
I blink back the tears and welcome the fury.
That’s my only friend now.
I won’t be that Kayla anymore. I won’t cry. I won’t beg. They’ll be begging me.
The stairs squeak as I start up.
My breaths catch in my throat as I freeze on the second step, listening for noise.
But I hear nothing except the silence of the night.
All I have to do is find his bedroom—and he only has two in this small colonial—then jam the syringe of propofol I stole from Helping Hand into his neck.
Once he’s out, I’ll kill him.
I’ll clean the mess with the oxygen bleach A gave me and disappear.
The cops won’t suspect me. Why would they?
A man like this surely has many enemies.
Many who hate his guts. It could be anyone in the area.
Even if the cops look at my computer, so what?
Looking at sex offenders in the area isn’t against the law or uncommon.
And I always make sure to look at those in other states too.
I’m even writing a thesis paper on sex offenders for a class. It’s why I’m searching up these perverts. For school. Nothing more.
“Officer, I was merely looking at Fred Avon and the others for my school assignment. Comparing prison sentences of offenders with similar crimes. I could never hurt someone, no matter how sick and sadistic they may be. I truly hope you catch whoever did this.”
When people look at me, they don’t see a killer.
But A was right. It’s what I am. No better than him. No worse, either.
Continuing up the stairs, I hold the strap of my bag as tightly as possible. The stairs only creak one more time, right before I reach the second level. There are three doors up here, and one is opened. Probably a bathroom. Once I pass it, I confirm that it is.
With my heart in my throat, my hand grips the handle of the first door and slowly, at a snail’s pace, I begin to turn it.
I can do this. It’s going to be fine.
The nerves take a front seat, but I don’t let them stop me.
Not when the door groans, not even when I step inside and realize this room is empty.
Nothing but a desk and a chair. I release a breath of relief before I strut back out into the hallway and head for the last door on the left. It’s the only room he can be in.
Knowing he’s there helps me prepare. Unclipping my duffel, I remove the syringe, holding it in one hand while I use the other to open the door just as quietly.
When I pass the threshold, my body turns ice cold. But once my eyes adjust to the dark, I notice a body on the bed. I can make out a shadow of a face, like he’s sleeping on his back. He lets out a moan, like he’s having a bad dream.
As I creep the short distance, my arms prickle with goose bumps, hoping he doesn’t wake up.
I lift the syringe, getting ready to jam it into his throat to take him out so that I can kill him in peace. As soon as it pierces his skin, I can feel it. And further, I push the meds into his system, letting the liquid enter his veins.
I’m sure the missing propofol will be reported, but I was good at covering my tracks. They’re not gonna know it’s me.
Just as I pull out the needle, the light switches on, the brightness momentarily blinding me.
I release an audible gasp, my mind attempting to catch up with my body. My pulse drums in my throat while my eyes adjust to my surroundings.
I blink twice, because I swear there’s a large, black mass in the corner of the room.
My vision begins to clear, and I gasp at the hooded figure sitting on a single chair in the corner, a blade in his hand. His face is downcast, so I don’t see if he’s wearing his mask.
“A?” I shiver out, ready to hurl. “Is…is that you?”