With that, I release her and she drops to the ground, cupping her neck as she tries to regulate her breathing. Her choking sounds are pathetic. Show who she truly is.
Bending to her level, I gingerly push a few strands of hair behind her ear, an action she automatically leans into while my lip curls in disgust. “You have no shame. No self-pride.” With two fingers, I trace the shell of her ear, causing a shiver to run through her. “But then again, you’re the daughter of a traitor. One I took great joy in dismembering while still alive, and who then took his final breath as the flames rose, disintegrating his limbs.”
“Stop.”
“Why should I?”
“I’m the right one, and you know it.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” Her voice betrays her—her fear is palpable, and I revel in it. Smile down at the pathetic woman on the floor. “There’s still time to make the right decision.”
“She will always be the right choice. The only fucking choice.” Then, before her next inhale, I hold her earlobe in my hand while she screams. Blood pours from the wound. The hole looks nasty—painful, but I hold no remorse. “This is my last warning, Elise. The next time, it’ll be your throat I hold in my hand instead of your ear.”
Leaving her where she lays crying, I walk out the door without looking back while pocketing the cartilage. She’ll strike. She’ll come for my pretty girl. Her problem is that she thinks her puppet-master act will continue to work, unaware that she’s dangling from my strings.
I move her.
I force her hand.
And the next time we see each other, my queen will have risen.
32
Gabriella
I’ve been awake for days now, watching the shadows on the walls.
I’m not okay.
I’m scared.
I’m still tracing the letters on my thigh, fighting the instinct to run because where do I go? Who will believe me when everything points to this being my own doing?
Someone had to be in my home. There’s no other plausible explanation.
And the knife beside me? How do I explain that?
What the SPD Captain claimed could be true, and yet, either way I don’t feel comfortable going to the police. Not after the last time; I was arrested for being scared out of my mind. Call Theo. He’ll help…I know he will.
But that brings in another set of problems. My association with him is the cause of the fading bruise on my face and the loss of my best friend. Shitty or not, she was all I had. For so long, it was the two of us, and now I’m alone. Mentally breaking every second of the day, and I’m afraid of what will be left behind the moment I shatter into a million pieces.
Will I recognize myself? Will I want to remember anything?
“Breathe in. Breathe out.” I’ve been surviving on food deliveries dropped outside my door and coffee—lots of coffee. Unhealthy and probably making it worse, but the terror is forcing my actions. Reality or possibilities—I don’t know which is worse. “I’ll get through this like always. Focus on work.”
My cell phone pings with a message and I look at the screen, placing my paintbrush in the water cup. It’s him. As if he knows I need him.
Why are you avoiding me, sweetheart? ~Theo
Another message before I’m done reading the first.
What’s going on? Are you sick? ~Theo
The guilt that hits me at his show of concern nearly bowls me over. My chest feels tight, and my body shakes as tears brim my eyes. The fight between my head and heart are making me doubt him, wondering if he’d abandon me too if I became one of those clingy women who carry too much baggage.
Swallowing back a sob, I type out a short reply.
All is bueno. I’m just working in the studio as I have a deadline fast approaching, and the owner of the gallery is a real tyrant. First two are done, BTW! ~Gabriella
Three small dots appear on the screen signaling he’s typing.
Are you lying to me? ~Theo
No. Of course not ~Gabriella
For a while he doesn’t respond, and the bothersome sensation that I’m betraying him doesn’t abate, especially when the next message comes in. Instead, it feels ten times worse—my chest squeezes painfully tight, and I have to walk out of the room and to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, on the back of my neck—anything to calm my beating heart and churning stomach.
I’ll wait for you. Come talk to me when you’re ready to be honest. ~Theo
“Maybe I should set up another appointment with my therapist?” I have a few probabilities—theories floating around in my head since the mail incident with my birth parents’ information. I could be a sleepwalker. I could be someone with multiple personalities and I wouldn’t know this, because there’s never been any testing done.
It might be me. It might be someone stalking me.
The problem is that I have no proof either way, and it’s driving me insane. I can’t sleep, eat, or breathe without wondering about the what ifs…
And the dead bodies. There’s no making sense of that because the large snake in my backyard was real. The video of a man dumping the body of who I now know was Elise’s lawyer in the fraud copyright case is real.
Coincidence? Maybe.
They, too, had a grudge against him? Could be.
Either way, the uncertainty is eating me alive, and I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m jittery, panic rising at every turn.
“Lord help me.” My doorbell rings then, and I pause my internal rambling. I’m not expecting anything today. The person rings again and I rush back to grab my phone, opening the Ring app and waiting for the live feed. It takes a few seconds, but an older man comes onto the screen wearing a mail uniform and holding a manila envelope. I
