Adrenaline whooshed through her veins as the Lexus crept slowly into the pond. She could hear Ethan still making those awful noises as it sank. Her skin crawled as she waited, expecting at any minute he would jump out of the car. But he didn’t. Once the car was completely submerged, she fully expected him to rise from the murky water like the bad guys did in horror movies.
But he didn’t.
She watched for several more minutes, until the water stopped bubbling and the surface became calm, peaceful again.
Oh, my God, it actually worked.
The owl hooted again. This time she flipped it the bird, then plunged her hands deep into her pockets and started on the long, freezing walk back to the apartment. She still had several hours before daylight, but every moment counted.
There was more to do.
And the hard part hadn’t even begun.
A little over an hour later, Elizabeth arrived back at the apartment. She slunk in and looked around, then exhaled with relief.
All was quiet.
The girls were just as she’d left them: Christine lying on the living-room floor. Amy on her bed.
Elizabeth’s hands were so cold from the walk, they felt like inanimate objects. Her face was so frigid, she felt it might fall off. She went to the bathroom sink and ran hot water over her freezing hands and tried to think of where she should hide the knife. She thought of possibilities and crossed them out in her head as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Her eyes were wide and wild, her hair disheveled and windblown. She smiled at her image, and even to herself, she thought she looked crazy.
Then she had an idea.
She turned and looked down at the floor.
The air vent.
She hurried to the coffee table and grabbed the knife, then returned to the bathroom to see if it would fit.
It did. But just barely.
She went to the junk drawer in the kitchen and grabbed a red marker, then returned to the bathroom and scribbled on the mirror:
YOU MADE ME
It was a message for Chelsea. A double entendre.
She returned the marker to the kitchen. Then, picking up the knife again, she opened both the living-room and bathroom windows and took a big breath. This would be the hardest part. She’d always had a very strong will and an abnormally high tolerance for pain, and she hoped she could pull this off in a believable way.
Her blood electric, she squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath, then raked the blade across the back of her hand. Immediately, beads of blood bubbled up on her knuckles.
She was pleased that she’d felt more adrenaline than pain. But she’d only just gotten started.
Tears pricking her eyes, she pressed the blade hard from her nose to her ear and sliced. Again, the stinging was sharp but tolerable. The blood ran down her cheek and dripped on the carpet.
So far, so good.
She sliced at her arms, each slice a little deeper than the one before it, and walked backward slowly toward the bathroom. She started to feel queasy again. But she didn’t stop. It was time for more convincing wounds.
Biting down on her bottom lip, she sank the knife into her left quadriceps and screamed. She quickly sank the knife into the other leg. Blood was really flowing. She tried to not think, to just act, and aimed for the side of her abdomen. The blade went in far too easily, and way too deep, and she screamed out again at the searing pain that seemed to radiate from everywhere. Her eyes flooded with tears.
Shit, oh fuck!
Barely able to breathe, she stumbled her way to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She rinsed off the knife, then shoved it in the air vent in the floor.
She used toilet paper and quickly cleaned blood from around the vent and flushed the bloody paper down the toilet. Then she stumbled back toward the tub.
She howled in agony as she lifted a leg over the side of the tub, then tried to lift the other leg. She screamed out as loud as she could for help, her mouth aimed at the bathroom window almost three feet above her. The pain was so sharp and hot. She’d had no idea pain could be this bad.
She bent over and vomited. Then she screamed some more. Over and over, hoping someone wouldn’t only hear but would also do something about it. Either that, or that she’d quickly die. Her body felt like one giant open sore. It burned and throbbed, and the pain was incredible. Through her tears, she stared at the blood on the tub’s porcelain bottom. There was too much.
Clearly, she’d overdone it.
She was losing blood fast, too fast.
The walls started closing in on her. She stumbled, then went down hard. Her head smashed against the tub’s edge. Then everything went black.
When she’d awakened, she’d learned she’d gotten away with it, just like she had the time before with the Joneses. Real-life cops and CSIs, she had come to realize, weren’t as thorough as they appeared in the movies or on television. They were understaffed, overworked, burned out. Their budgets were continually slashed. As a result, they often missed things. Sometimes several things.
During the stay in the psychiatric hospital, Elizabeth had been taken back to the apartment to pack a few personal belongings. The first thing she had done upon returning was retrieve the knife from the vent. She’d stuffed it into an old backpack, and no one had been the wiser.
And, of course, Chelsea hadn’t a clue what had happened. Yes, she’d tried to put the puzzle together, but she’d been missing too many pieces.
Chelsea. The thought of Chelsea brought her back to the present, and Elizabeth felt a pang of remorse. Chelsea was gone now. Well, not so much gone as pushed way, way down. So far down, she no longer had a voice.
She’d miss Chelsea. She’d always genuinely cared about her and had done everything possible to ensure her happiness and safety. But this time, Chelsea had given her no other choice. Elizabeth had tried to warn her. She’d told her outright that reconnecting with Boyd was bad news. She’d warned her with the notes. She had been the one who had thrown away those sketches of the Joneses’ place, knowing how dangerous they could potentially be if Lang saw them.
Protecting Chelsea had been so much easier when she was younger. As Chelsea had grown older, she’d become more aware, asked more questions, had suddenly wanted friends—all of which posed major challenges for Elizabeth as she’d tried to prevent others from catching on. It had finally become impossible.
Now she didn’t have to work so hard to keep it all together. Now she was in charge. It was freeing not to have to worry about her anymore.
With her makeup applied, Elizabeth straightened her spine and looked at herself. She’d dyed her hair blonde and cut it into an angular-style bob.
She looked good, like a brand-new woman.
“Hi, I’m Delilah Anderson,” she mouthed in the mirror, trying out the name on her fake ID. She decided she looked believable.
She knew that Lang would be coming after her, so she would have to work fast. Either find some lonely man with a yacht who could sail her away to a Caribbean island or jump to the southern Keys. Whatever she did, she couldn’t stay in any one place very long.
She grabbed the “Do Not Disturb” sign and slipped it on the doorknob. It was time to mix with the crowd outside.
Chelsea had had her turn.
Now it was hers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
People often say that raising a child takes a village, and I know that was true for me with my twin sons. I have no clue how we would have done it without our village. And we were blessed to have an amazing one.
Writing a novel also takes a village. At least, when I’m the one writing it. I’m so very grateful for those who helped me during the writing of this one, and there were a lot of you!
First and foremost, a huge thank-you to my husband, Brian, who played Mr. Mom again while I worked day and night for many months on this book. A big thank-you to David Wilson for all his amazing help during the writing of this book.
Thanks
to Mom and Terry for always being there when I need anything. Sage Gallegos for emotional support and letting me use her desktop in Los Angeles when my laptop failed me. Thank you to Roger Canaff and Catherine Johnson for answering my investigative questions. Deanna Finn, Izabela Jeremus, and Ashley Previte for beta reading. Charlotte Herscher for her eagle eye. You always make my stories so much better. Mark Klein for being there from the beginning.
A big thanks to Jessica Tribble and Thomas & Mercer for buying this book and continuing to believe in me and my work. I can hardly believe this is already my fifth thriller with you!
I am thankful to my beautiful sons, who sacrificed time at the park, several dinners, rides to first grade in the morning, and several weekends without me because I was busy working. You’re too young to realize it now, but Mommy actually has a lot more time to spend with you than some other mommies. It’s just that my schedule is a little different, so it doesn’t always seem that way . . . now.
Finally, I want to thank all my readers. I am so very grateful for each and every one of you. It’s because of you that I’m able to write novels for a living. I consider myself extremely fortunate and blessed.
I hope you enjoy this novel.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 Alan Weissman
#1 USA TODAY BESTSELLING author Jennifer Jaynes graduated from Old Dominion University with a bachelor’s degree in health sciences and a certificate from the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. She made her living as a content manager, webmaster, news publisher, medical assistant, editor, publishing consultant, and copywriter before finally living her dream as a full-time novelist. Jennifer is the author of The Stranger Inside, Never Smile at Strangers, Don’t Say a Word, and Ugly Young Thing.
When she’s not writing or spending time with her husband and twin boys, Jennifer loves reading, cooking, and studying nutrition.
Visit Jennifer at www.jenniferjaynes.net.
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