Linnie gasps in pain and shock as her head jerks back, her eyes wide and mouth agape. “S-Stevie?”
“Sorry, Linnie.” I yank the knife out before shoving it back in and twisting it next to her spine. “There’s only one serial killer I love and you made the mistake of stabbing him in front of me.”
With a shove, I throw Linnie off my lap and quickly cut through the duct tape around my ankles before climbing on top of her only to drive the kitchen knife through her chest again and again. “No one. Fucks. With my man! Or my brothers! Ever!”
I lose track of how many times I stab her, years of pent up pain and anger mixing with my fear as I choose fight over flight for the first time in my life. Years of never having anyone truly care for me, years of being under Beau’s thumb and having to follow his rules. I plunge the knife into Linnie’s chest over and over as Cal’s words play through my head; how he loved me and my mother, how Beau Williams took both of us away from him and threatened to do the same with the boys and Rochelle. I take out all of my loneliness and frustration on someone I thought was my friend, someone I thought did truly care for me only to find she was just like everyone else in some twisted way. She wanted to keep me as a possession, as a sad and morbid trophy of a victory that came at the loss of so much, and I keep going because she tried to take Victor away from me. Everyone has always tried to take away the things I love and in return I got nothing but so much pain and heartache I was ready to end things on my own.
Not anymore.
No one is going to take anything away from me ever again.
Victor is mine, my brothers are mine, and this new chapter of my life I’m about to start writing is mine, too.
All of those feelings and more come down with each dig of the knife, and I only stop when Linnie quits fighting me, when her body goes still and she does nothing but gasp and gurgle around the blood pouring from her mouth. And when that happens, I switch gears completely.
Quickly, I scramble off of her and rush to Victor, cupping his cheeks before patting them to keep him awake. “Tor, Gizmo, can you hear me?”
“Baby…” he whispers, but his eyes don’t open.
“Victor, please. Open your eyes for me, ok?”
One brow struggles to lift as he squints one very pale grey eye. “Amazing.”
“Good enough.” Using all the strength I can muster, I hook my arms under his and start dragging my ghost out into the hall, the knife still firmly in my grip, and the second I get to the extra bedroom and confirm my brothers are ok, the front door bursts wide open and an entire crew of leather-clad men coming storming in.
“In the bedroom!” I scream. “Please! She’s in the bedroom! Make sure she’s dead. Make sure…” The sobs that wrack my body as I drop to the floor and cradle Victor in my lap are so intense, so hard and so deep they’re nothing like I’ve ever experienced before. “Help us!” I yell before looking down at my ghost, at the ash-white face of the man I love as his head lolls to the side. “Please. Please, don’t leave me. You can’t. Don’t leave me, Tor. Please.”
“Get the… cat.”
I frown through my tears and ignore his delirious demand as his breathing turns raspy, even more shallow than before, and everything around me fades while I focus on his chest. “Breathe, Victor. Please, just stay with me. I need you.Weneed you. Please, don’t leave me.”
Please.
Please, stay.
Stay with me, now and always.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
VICTOR
I never expectedto go to heaven when I died.
For one, I never believed in it.
As a child, I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of somesupreme beingthat created the entire world and everything in it just because it was bored, and as I got older and heard howGod is loveandHe wants the best for Hischildrenfrom my parents—who were sadistic bastards that beat us and led a closet, hardcore BDSM lifestyle—I had an even harder time with the concept, so heaven was a stretch since it would have been created by something that allowed that to happen.
Then I went to St. Pat’s and despite having the catholic ideals drilled into us on a very regular basis, the Monsignor and his bitches blew apart any chance I had of ever believing in the God they preached about.
The second reason I always assumed heaven was off the table for me? I startedplayinggod.
Passing judgment, deciding who gets to live or die based on their actions while they walked this mortal plane. Watching the life leave someone’s horrified eyes as they take their last breath because I decided they weren’t worthy anymore. That kind of goes against everything thegood booksays and I figured my choices solidified my place in Hell, if there was such a thing.
So, when I actually died, thanks to a homicidal RN that put my life’s work and overall charming personality to the test, I was surprised to find I was wrong.
Am I saying there is a heaven, hell, or God as the Catholics or any Christian portrays them? No, not necessarily, but I’m questioning a lot right now because when I flatlined in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I saw Toby.
For the first time since I cremated my little brother all on my own at fifteen-years-old, I saw Tobias Crow as clear as day, looking exactly the way I remember him.
