“Why would you do that to yourself? Why are you making yourself jump—”
“Because I need to learn. I need to grow. I have to become complete—”
“Why?”
“So I can kill them all!” Rune swung his arm wide, sending her favorite lamp crashing to the ground.
Fiona gasped, her hands rising to cover her mouth.
“Oh, I loved that lamp.” She took a step forward to gather the pieces on the ground, stopping as she felt Rune’s pale eyes locked on her. Something about his look said she might be lumped in with them all. The people he wanted to kill.
Fiona straightened and rocked her weight back against the raised breakfast bar counter.
She cleared her throat. “Who do you want to kill?”
Rune’s shoulders squared. “Everyone. Everyone not strong enough to resist me. The weaklings.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Survival of the fittest.”
Fiona nodded, pretending to understand.
He’s insane. How did I forget that? How did I forget why I ran away from him in the first place?
She held out her hands, patting the air down with her palms in an attempt to calm her father.
“Just so you know, I’m not in for this.”
“In for this?”
“I’m out. I thought maybe we could work together but it sounds like you have a plan I’m not prepared—”
“What?”
“I don’t want to kill everyone. I just want my share of the fame and fortune. My career—”
Rune took half a step forward, his hands curling into fists. “Your career?”
Fiona felt a chill run down the back of her neck.
You can do this. You’ve left him before.
“My career is—”
Rune took two long strides towards her, too fast for her to stop him. He moved, wrong. Like a stop-action cartoon played at high speed. He was on her before her mind could process his movement.
Bony fingers wrapped around her neck. They felt too long. She could feel them overlapping above her nape. Fiona grabbed his wrists, peeling at his grip, her gasps for air hindered by the pressure of his thumbs on her windpipe.
Rune leant forward, bending her back against the countertop. Her spine felt as though it might snap. Lowering his face close to hers, he hissed, his face red with strain. “Let it happen. Think of a place nearby. Want that place and that’s where you’ll go. Want it.”
Fiona’s left hand shot to the side, reaching until her fingers found her purse. She pushed her hand inside the bag, feeling for something, anything she could use.
Her touch slid along something smooth and hard.
My autograph pen.
Not long after she’d booked her first television show, a little girl had asked her for her signature. She’d been giddy at the prospect of signing her name, but she didn’t carry a pen at the time, and she’d sworn to never miss that opportunity again. So she bought herself the most perfect, black, Monte Blanc pen she could find, carrying it always.
Hooking the pen into her palm, she worked the cap off to reveal the point.
Her vision grew dark. Starbursts popped against murky black.
Her arm jerked from the purse.
She stabbed.
The pen embedded into the side of Rune’s throat, plunging through layers of rough scar tissue.
Her father roared and released his grip on her throat. First the right hand, which slapped to his neck as he stumbled back. Then the left.
Fiona ducked beneath that left hand and ran for the door. Behind her, she could hear Rune wailing with anger.
He’s coming.
She fiddled with the knob for what felt like forever. Finally, her palms found purchase and she turned the oval globe, flinging the door behind her as she ran into the hall.
She glanced at the large, silver elevator doors, remembering every time she’d ever pushed the recall button. Calculating the time it took to arrive.
No time.
Running to the stairs, she pushed open the door. She could hear Rune behind her.
“Fiona!”
She slipped, nearly falling on her rear as she hit the first set of stairs. Catching herself on the railing, she kicked off her heels and ran down the remaining flights. She couldn’t hear anyone behind her now. She didn’t know if he had taken the elevator.
On the ground floor she pushed open the door and burst into the lobby.
“Did my father come out of the elevator?” she asked as she ran by the deskman.
“What? Miss Fiona, no, what...?”
She didn’t stop. She ran through another door to the garage and jumped into her car, thrilled her secure, private parking had inspired a habit of leaving her keys in the coffee mug holder cup.
One of the little luxuries of being rich—you didn’t worry people might rummage through your car at night.
She started the Lexus and pulled from her spot, tires squealing on the smooth pavement.
The exit’s iron gate bars lifted as she rolled towards them and she slid beneath them, turning into the guest parking lot leading to the front of the building.
There he is.
Rune stumbled through the front door like a zombie, his hand still on his neck, his naked chest covered in blood.
Fiona screamed and jerked her wheel to the left to avoid him. It wasn’t kindness that made her swerve. She felt sure if she hit him, somehow he would only be more mad.
Passing him, she looked in her rear view mirror in time to see him fall to his knees.
She didn’t feel herself crossing the threshold from the parking lot into the street. That little bump she’d experienced a hundred times before. All she felt was a car plowing into the front passenger side of her Lexus, sending her spinning.
When her car stopped rotating she didn’t take a moment to find her bearings. Instead, she clawed at the
