Shatter

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Shatter Page 18

by Lola Taylor


  “He can’t do this!” Amy slammed her dainty fist on the dash. “I won’t let him get away with hurting you!”

  “It’s you he’ll hurt if I don’t comply.” Scott gripped her shoulders. “And I can’t let that happen.”

  “And like I said, I can’t lose you! It’ll crush me.” Her body slumped. She looked a bit crushed already.

  Scott’s chest tightened. “If there were any other way…”

  Amy’s eyes snapped up. “Run away with me.”

  His mouth lifted up on one side. “It’s sweet of you, but I can’t.”

  “I’m serious, Scott. Run away with me. I’m an artist. I practically have a portable job. I don’t make much, but I can support us for a while until you find work. And it’s not like I have other reasons to stay rooted in this city.”

  He smiled sadly. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “It can be. Just be with me.”

  God, how much he wanted to. He took a deep breath. “If he hurt you—”

  She placed a finger to his lips. “Ssssh. No more ‘ifs.’ Let’s worry about the present. I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this, together. Just don’t give in to him. Okay?” She squeezed his hand.

  Staring at her then, it struck him just how much he’d grown to care for her. Was this what love felt like? Real, honest-to-God love? It was so…fragile. It scared him.

  Suddenly, for the first time with any woman, he could see himself going further. A ring, a house or apartment, children…

  They could be happy. He could be happy.

  Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. “Okay.”

  She smiled back and then buckled her seat belt and settled into the seat as he started the engine and drove off.

  As they drove along the highway, he stared at the road, lost in his own thoughts.

  Amy wanted things to be simple. He could do simple; that’s not what he had a hard time grasping.

  Because things had been real black-and-white for a while now, starting with the night Ghost first threatened Amy’s life.

  The risk was too great. He couldn’t leave Amy’s life to chance.

  Which was why he hoped she’d understand and forgive him for what he was about to do.

  Amy had never been so grateful to see her apartment. It felt strange, coming home and actually looking forward to it. Dreading a stranger standing in the shadows or seeing fresh blood on the floor were what usually played out in her mind, but not this time. Today, there was a surety to her steps, a sense that everything was going to be all right.

  As soon as they had gotten inside the building, Scott had told her Erika had been blowing up his phone, claiming it was an emergency. Amy had rolled her eyes, but she didn’t want to give him a hard time. He was under enough stress as it was. Besides, she was convinced from the revulsion on his face earlier that he was in no way still attracted to Erika. Strangely enough, she wasn’t worried about him cheating on her.

  Okay, maybe a little. That kind of burn was hard to get rid of. It left scars on not only your heart, but also your self-esteem.

  She had kissed Scott at Erika’s door and said, “Good luck” before she ducked into her apartment for a quick change of clothes and to freshen up. Part of her longed for a nap, but there was way too much nervous energy running in her body. She’d never be able to sleep, not with everything that was going on.

  It was chilly inside her apartment. Apparently, she’d left the AC running full-blast.

  She hummed to herself as she walked across the room to turn the AC down. It was ridiculous to feel so cheery in a time like this, but she was hopeful. So damned hopeful, it hurt.

  Things had to work out. There was a sense of rightness with Scott she’d never once felt with Michael, and at the time, she’d thought he’d hung the moon.

  There was no way anything this perfect between two people couldn’t have a fighting chance, if they worked together and just tried.

  It took some effort, but she finally managed to twist the AC knob to OFF. As the fan died down, she could barely make out the squeak of wood behind her.

  She immediately knew where it was, which was why it didn’t strike her as strange. There was a loose floorboard near the kitchen countertop.

  Directly behind where she stood.

  As realization struck too late, her heart leapt as the air heated behind her back, contrasting with the cool blade that pressed against her throat.

  AMY COULDN’T BREATHE. It seemed every shallow breath she took, the blade dug that much deeper.

  “Na…than,” she gasped. Her heart beat so wildly that it caused her pulse to thrum almost painfully in her neck and head. The taste of fear coated her throat, sucking the moisture out.

  “Hello again,” came that dark voice from beside her ear. His free hand snaked around her waist, taking its time in feeling her curves. “I’d forgotten how soft you were, how plush. You always were a chubster, but hey, I’m not complaining. I’ve fucked some bigger girls.” He squeezed her sides. “Feels just like a cushion.”

  She strangled a whimper, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. She refused to give this monster another piece of her.

  He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply. “Ah, Amy. You always smelled like lavender and vanilla. I’ve never forgotten that scent.”

  Amy racked her mind. It was hard to talk with the blade pressed against her throat. “Were you the one who broke in here and took my lotion?”

  He paused. “The hell you talking about?”

  “Don’t lie to me, you sick son of a bitch.” Her anger made her eyes sting. “You’ve been stalking me.”

  “Lovingly keeping an eye on you for Michael is more like it.”

  “Yeah, right. You never gave a damn about Michael.”

  “Don’t say that!” he bellowed. She jumped and squeezed her eyes shut. “Michael was like a brother to me! And you took him away!”

  “Nathan—”

  With a disgusted grunt, he twirled her around and forced her down onto the couch. She immediately scanned for things she could use as a weapon, but all she had lying around were a few paintbrushes and some empty paint cans.

  She glared at him as he towered over her, that smug smirk stretched over his lips. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

  “I know a little bird.” Nathan crouched next to her. He placed the tip of the knife on her knee and scraped it up her thigh. She shivered, hugging herself, her eyes trained on the blade that he could plunge into her at any moment.

  “What do you want?” she whispered, trembling.

  “Justice,” he said simply, dragging the blade point back the other way on her leg. “Retribution. Whatever they call it.” The blade stopped, and those cruel eyes lifted to hers. “Revenge.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, surprised by the strength in her voice.

  “Of course not. Perfect, sweet little Amy. A goddamned saint in everyone’s eyes. Oh, how I’ve waited to see you fall.” He leaned forward. By instinct, she started to lean backward and then stopped herself. Though fear gripped her mind and body, some defiant part of her wanted to fight, to show him he would not claim her.

  His face stopped about an inch from hers, their eyes level. Once again, the blade pressed against her throat. “What was it like, walking in and seeing his blood all over the floor?” he said softly. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t feel guilty. After all, you’re the reason he got into this mess.”

  Her mind started to sink back into the memory of that horrible night.

  “No,” she breathed, closing her eyes.

  When she opened them, she wasn’t in her apartment anymore—she was in Michael’s.

  The memory was always in stark clarity. Somehow, going through a traumatic experience made you remember all the details. The chill of the room, for example, from him always leaving the windows open in the dead of winter.

  And how
her mind was still reeling from her and Michael’s fight earlier.

  Becca had told her to trust her gut. God, how much she wished she had. She knew there was something going on between Michael and Roxanne. “He wouldn’t do that to me,” she’d argued, both with herself and with Becca. “He knows how that would make me feel. He wouldn’t hurt me like that.”

  But he had. And it’d broken her heart when he’d admitted it, the night before their wedding.

  He’d said he’d made a mistake, that he’d been drunk when he’d slept with Roxanne. That the singer didn’t mean anything to him, and he only loved Amy and wanted to spend his life with her.

  Michael had a past filled with rumors of womanizing, so his unfaithfulness shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

  But it did, and it had hurt like hell. She’d always hoped to be “the one” who’d make him change his ways, the one woman he’d want to be faithful to. Now, she saw it was a concept that belonged in a Disney movie, not real life. Not her life.

  Her throat was raw from screaming at him in their argument over the phone, right after he’d confessed and she’d fled his apartment, and her eyes had been filled with so many tears that she’d barely been able to see the road while she was driving.

  “Please, Amy,” he’d begged on the phone, his voice raspy. “Come back. Let me talk to you in person. There’s something…there’s more…”

  “More,” she’d choked out. “What more can be left to say after you just confessed to fucking Roxanne?”

  “I… Just come back. Please? Please, babe?”

  Why the hell did she say yes? She must be a masochist, because she knew the moment she saw him, the knife he’d buried in her heart with his confession would only cut deeper.

  The gated apartment complex was quiet, but it usually was on a Monday night. After she let herself inside the locked-entry building, she took the elevator up to his condo on the top floor.

  Michael had done well for himself. Thanks to the band’s chart-topping success, he’d been able to dig himself out of nearly living on the streets to taking up residence in one of the ritziest places in town. She was proud of him.

  Her heart squeezed as the elevator climbed. The air seemed to be getting thinner, and she grabbed hold of the cold metal railing for support. Could she really do this? Would she ever be able to face Michael again after what he’d admitted?

  No. No, she’d never be ready. Which was why if she didn’t do this now, she knew good and well she never would.

  The elevator dinged, and a second later the doors opened. Her heart jumped into her throat. With a deep breath, she took one step and then another, until she stood in front of his door.

  Her feet felt like lead. She stared at the key in her hand, poised above the keyhole.

  Should she knock? God, that sounded so weird. She hadn’t knocked on his door in ages. And he had told her to just come in.

  Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump…

  All she could hear was her heartbeat as it thrummed violently in her chest.

  Just do it, she thought.

  Holding her breath, she put the key into the keyhole and twisted. The door opened into darkness; the light from the hall spilled onto the hardwood floor in a yellow rectangle.

  Maybe he’s gone out. A heads-up would have been appreciated, but hey, she had no choice but to wait for him now.

  Feeling along the wall, she found the light switch and flipped it.

  “Damn,” she said when no lights came on. It wasn’t a power outage, considering the lights in the hall were on, so maybe a breaker had flipped. The breaker box was in the back of the condo.

  Not wanting to leave the door open, she closed and locked it and carefully made her way through the apartment, using her cell phone as a makeshift flashlight.

  Not that she really needed one. She knew the place by heart. After all, she’d lived here for the past six months. Laughing, snuggling, dancing, being the happiest she’d ever been.

  Then her whole world, her whole concept of love, had been torn apart at the seams, leaving her feeling broken and hurt inside.

  “Michael?” she called, just to be sure.

  No answer. Definitely not home.

  The breaker box wasn’t far, a short walk down the hall, in the laundry room. Just past the kitchen, her boot hit something slick. Being the middle of the hallway, there was nothing to grab onto. Flailing her arms for balance, she couldn’t correct herself in time and went down with a yelp. The phone shot out of her grip, flinging forward when she opened both hands to catch her fall.

  Her palms slammed into the floor and splashed in whatever liquid had been spilled on it as her phone slid down the hall and into an open room.

  Her nose wrinkled in disgust; she slowly stood and wiped the gooey substance onto her jeans. It was…warm. What was it? Some kind of syrup? It smelled weird, and the air had a faint metallic tinge to it.

  An alarm went off in her brain, telling her something wasn’t right. With a hand on the wall for support, she carefully walked down the hall to retrieve her phone. The dim blue glow from its screen highlighted the contours of the objects around it. The sink base, the toilet, the rug, the—

  Every muscle in her body froze as a chill cut through her. Eyes wide, she gazed at the slumped figure beside the tub. A tremor started in her knees, working its way up her legs as she whispered, “M-Michael?”

  There was no sound, except her barely controlled breathing.

  Feeling as if she were about to swallow her heart, she stepped forward to retrieve her phone. It rested just inside the bathroom, a few inches from familiar sneakers.

  Those are Michael’s favorites. He’d gotten them when he was sixteen. Though they were beat to shit, he swore they still fit and refused to part with them. They’d “been through stuff together,” he’d said.

  “Michael?” she whispered again, desperation in her voice.

  With a trembling hand, she grabbed her phone. Her hand was so clammy, she nearly dropped it. Holding her breath, she lifted the phone and shone the light on the figure’s face.

  Michael’s lifeless eyes stared back at her, his head tilted back and his throat split wide open.

  A scream started, but she couldn’t give it enough air to ring. Shock, terror, and horror rushed through her as she stumbled out of the bathroom and back down the hall, her eyes fixed on the dark figure of her very dead fiancé.

  Her brain wouldn’t work. It refused to process the grisly scene before her. The smell in the air became that much more pronounced; she nearly gagged at the metallic taste of the blood that coated her throat and tongue.

  Oh God. That’s Michael’s…Michael’s…

  She turned and vomited on the floor, retching until her stomach didn’t have anything left to chuck up.

  Straightening, she stumbled toward a phone and then stupidly realized she had one in her hand.

  She was barely able to think straight enough to dial 9-1-1. The phone rang on the other end what felt like a bazillion times. The third time an automated voice told her they were experiencing high call volume and someone would be with her shortly, she screamed at the phone and into the poor dispatcher’s ear who just picked up.

  “Help! My boyfriend, no, my-my fiancé is dead! He’s dead!”

  “Calm down, miss. Who’s dead?”

  “My boyfriend—dammit, why do I keep saying that?!” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “My fiancé is dead, in the bathroom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “HIS THROAT’S CUT! OF COURSE I’M SURE!”

  “I’m going to need you to calm down, miss.”

  Hearing that seemed to make her hysteria worse, because it reminded her why she was in this state of mind in the first place. “I…I can’t…Michael…” She started to cry. Her legs gave out, and she grabbed hold of the marble countertop just as she stumbled into the kitchen. She couldn’t catch her weight in time, and her knees slammed to the floor. It hurt, or at least, she knew it should
hurt. But she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything.

  “Hello? Miss?”

  “I’m here,” she whispered.

  “Is there anyone else there?”

  Oh God. Coming onto her knees, she peered over the counter. “I-I don’t think so.”

  “Just to be safe, I need you to exit and get to a safe place until I send help over. Can you do that for me?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  She dragged herself to her feet. The toe of her shoe caught something; a metallic zing sang as a bloodied knife skidded across the floor.

  Her heart stopped.

  “Miss? Can you hear me?”

  Her voice got smaller. “I…I think I just found the murder weapon.”

  Furiously typing fingers ratta-tap-tapped in her ear. “Don’t touch it. I need you to get out, now. Where are you?”

  She barely remembered the address, something she knew by heart, but she sputtered it to the lady.

  “Your name?” the dispatcher said, followed by more typing.

  “Julia-Julia Gray.”

  “Run, Julia. I need you to run.”

  That felt impossible, given the jelly-like feeling of her legs. She obeyed anyway, hauling ass as quickly as she could toward the front door. She’d just cleared the living room when the door cracked open, and Nathan’s face popped in.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Oh God,” she breathed.

  “Miss Gray?” called the dispatcher from the phone at her side. “Can you hear me?”

  “He’s here.” Terror froze her into place as Nathan opened the door wider.

  His gaze found hers, his eyes widening and slipping from her head to her toes. She knew what he saw.

  A girl covered in her fiancé’s blood.

  He swallowed hard.

  Then his eyes, cold as stone, lifted to hers, and she knew without a doubt that she would be next.

  The metal of the knife against her throat had warmed, thanks to being pressed against her skin. Amy barely thought about it. She was locked inside the memory, reliving the terror of facing down Nathan on her own all over again.

  He’d been reciting her story to her verbatim, just like how she’d told the police.

 

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