How Do You Like Your Blue-Eyed Boy? (Phoenix Noir Book 1)
Page 11
“How many people have you killed?”
She glowered at me like a sullen child. “Not as many as you, I’ll bet.”
“Why would you kill Tim? My good friend?”
“The money was good. And I never liked him.”
Now I did cry. I just stood there and sobbed, and she sat there and watched me. Snot ran out of my nose. Some sitcom played silently on the TV.
“What are you going to do?” she asked me.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I don’t know. I can’t call the cops on you. I can’t prove anything. Even if they prove you’re Rebecca Dichter, it won’t matter. There was no evidence back when you were her. If they searched this place, would they find the gun?”
She shook her head. “My gun’s somewhere else. I pick it up when I need it.” Pause. “What if I promise to stop?”
“I had my tongue in your ass a few hours after you killed Spike. Jesus Christ.”
She stood up. “You don’t have any fucking right to judge me! You don’t know anything about me. You just thought you did.”
I struck with the heel of my hand. Her nose skidded across her face, stopping somewhere on her left cheek. The impact knocked her over the bed and onto the floor, but she landed in classic judo style, slapping the floor with her forearms. She rolled away from my kick, came to her feet and headed for the kitchen area. She grabbed for a knife on the counter, and I grabbed for her. We both reached our targets, but by the time my hands closed on her, the knife was in my stomach almost all the way to the handle. She drove it in so hard that she lost her grip on it. She was trying to grab the handle and twist it when I smashed my head into her face. She clamped what teeth she had left into my cheek and let herself fall to the floor, taking a piece of my face with her. I kicked her head like it was a football, and that probably broke her neck. But I still put a foot on her throat and crushed it to the bone.
Neither of us had uttered a sound.
I left the knife in me. I went down on my knees, picked up her phone and dialed 911. My voice sounded normal, or I thought it did.
Everything was red and sticky. For a long time I knelt there, staring at her face. I was looking for something, I didn’t know what. I still don’t.
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About the Author
Barry Graham is a novelist, reporter, columnist, poet and Zen monk, and the author of more than a dozen books. Originally from Glasgow, Scotland, he lives in Portland, Oregon. Readers are welcome to email him at barrygraham@fastmail.fm.
Read more at Barry Graham’s site.