I can feel her watching me. I can feel the air shift as she leans in uncertainly. Then pain spreads along my ribcage as she kicks me hard in the side. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. She huffs a laugh.
“Such a shame she’s died so young,” she says flatly, her voice pitching up into a singsong lilt that sends a fresh spike of nausea rolling through me. “Best to bury the evidence.”
Her footsteps pad in the opposite direction. The back kitchen door creaks open as she steps into the garden, followed by rustling noises from the shed.
Metal clinks against wood. The sound of leather workman gloves snapping into place. A shovel dragged across the gravel path. She’s meticulous and pleased with herself.
Certain she’s won.
But she took her eyes off me long enough that I’ve grabbed hold of a surprise of my own.
One she doesn’t notice as I return to where she left me, seemingly lifeless on the floor.
Chelsea strides back into the kitchen, breathing heavier, as she sets down the shovel and crouches at my feet. Her gloved hands close around my ankles and she starts to drag me slowly and clumsily toward the threshold.
I give it a few seconds, and then I strike.
With every ounce of strength I have left, I surge upward, gritting my teeth against the intense pain in my abdomen, and drive the kitchen blade forward with both hands, burying it deep in the left side of her chest.
Chelsea gasps, the sound sharp and strangled, as her eyes widen and her mouth opens to spill blood. I twist the knife harder, fury surging through me as I look into her stunned face and savor every second of the moment.
“You crazy bitch!” I growl at her. “Stay the fuck away from them. They’remyfamily!”
She stumbles backward, fingers scrabbling at the knife handle sticking out of her chest, but it’s too late. Her knees buckle. Her body gives out. She hits the floor with a heavy thud, her eyes still wide, locked on mine in disbelief as the life drains out of her, and the kitchen falls silent.
I’d like to say I’m overcome with relief she’s dead, but it’s immediately the opposite.
My head is throbbing like it’s about to explode.
The compromised insulin has made me feel it’s a miracle I’m still conscious. That I’ve hung on out of sheer determination not to let Chelsea win.
I wince as more blood drips from my side and I know I can’t go down.
Not yet.
Emmett’s in the high chair, whining for me, his arms outstretched.
But I can’t go to him; it’s more important I find Declan or Willow. Someone who can get help.
I make it out of the kitchen half bent over, panting from how sick I feel. Slicked in blood and sweat, I’m on the brink of collapse.
By the time I make it to the second floor, I’m crawling, leaving a grim trail of blood everywhere. I manage to push the door to my bedroom open, where finally I find proof of life of my husband.
He’s bound to the bed by ropes, screaming into a gag.
I have to do this last thing. I have to undo his binds.
And then… then…
It’s what I tell myself as I crawl over, every move woozy and clumsy. I’m shaking as I struggle with the knots, feeling so ill I wouldn’t be surprised if this was it.
Fear and worry flashes in Declan’s eyes as he watches me. He clearly sees it too; how I’m running on fumes and my body’s close to giving out completely.
The knot loosens and he’s able to tug his wrist free. It’s the last thing I remember as finally I let my body surrender to the pain and trauma and hypoglycemic episode taking over.
But it’s with the knowledge that Chelsea is dead and Declan is free, which means at least the kids will be safe…
Chapter 19
