Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Julian stares at the knife in my hand, then at my face, clearly trying to reconcile my pin-up appearance with my apparent homicidal intentions. “You’re shaking.”
He’s right. My hands are trembling so badly the knife wavers in the air like I’m conducting an invisible orchestra.
“First-time nerves,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Blue, where exactly do I put this?”
Blue moves closer, and I can feel the heat of his body behind me. When he speaks, it’s low, meant only for me. “You don’t have to do this, sweetheart. I can handle Julian. You can watch if you want to see him die, but you don’t have to—”
“Stop protecting me,” I whisper back, not turning around. “I need to do this myself.”
“Wherever feels right,” Blue says finally, resigned. “Trust your instincts.”
I step closer to Julian’s chair . . . so close. This is it. This is justice for Dad. All I have to do is push the blade into his neck and watch him bleed.
So why do I feel like I’m about to throw up?
“Come on,” Julian says, sounding almost bored. “If you’re going to do this, do it. Stop standing there looking like you’re about to cry.”
“I’m not going to cry.” Even though my eyes are definitely watering. “I’m just figuring out the best approach.”
“The best approach is to get it over with. Some of us have places to be.”
He sighs loudly and then again over-dramatically.
“Look, Blue,” Julian says, turning his attention away from me. “Can’t you just step in here? Put me out of my misery? At least let me die with some dignity by the hands of the infamous Blue instead of whatever this amateur hour bullshit is.”
Blue’s response comes out strained, like the words are fighting their way past his throat. “Sorry, Julian. I’m retired. This is Saylor’s show now.”
“Your retirement is going to get me tortured to death by someone who can’t figure out which end of a knife is sharp,” Julian says with genuine disgust.
I can feel Blue’s tension radiating from across the room, can practically hear him reconsidering this entire plan.
I raise the knife again, aiming for his throat because that seems efficient. But as I bring the blade closer to his skin, my stomach revolts. The metal is maybe two inches from his neck when I freeze completely.
“Jesus Christ,” Julian mutters. “Just push it in. It’s not complicated.”
“Stop talking. You’re making this harder.”
“How am I making it harder? You point the pointy end at me and apply pressure. My little nephew could figure this out.”
I press the tip of the blade against Julian’s throat, barely touching skin. The contact makes him stiffen, but he doesn’t make a sound. I can see where the knife point has just barely pierced him, the tiniest drop of blood welling up like a scarlet bead.
“Ow,” Julian says dryly. “That really stings. Are you planning to kill me one cell at a time?”
I grit my teeth and press harder, trying to coach myself through it. It’s just like cutting into a steak, I tell myself. Just meat. Just flesh. People do this at dinner tables every night without puking all over themselves. The blade sinks in maybe a quarter inch, and suddenly there’s more blood—a thin red line trickling down his neck like some grotesque necklace.
Julian hisses. “Well, that’s slightly more progress. At this rate, I’ll bleed out sometime next Thursday.”
The sight of that crimson trail makes my stomach clench violently. My vision starts to tunnel, and I can taste bile rising in my throat. I pull the knife back, waving it around wildly as panic sets in.
“I can’t do this,” I gasp, flailing the blade through the air as I pace. “This is insane. I can’t actually—”
“Jesus, watch where you’re swinging that thing,” Julian says, trying to lean his chair away from my erratic movements.
“I thought I could do it but I can’t!” I’m gesticulating frantically now, knife cutting through the air in wide arcs as the words tumble out. “This is crazy. I’m not a killer, I’m a jazz singer from New York who can barely kill a spider without calling my neighbors for help!”
“Could you maybe put the knife down while you have your breakdown?” Julian suggests with the weary patience of someone who’s dealt with hysterical amateurs before.
“This is supposed to be easy!” I cry out, slashing the air with wild, exaggerated motions. “You just stab, or slice, and—” I demonstrate with frantic gestures, the razor-sharp blade cutting dangerous arcs through the air.
“I wanted to be strong enough,” I continue, gesticulating emphatically as I talk. “I wanted to prove that I could—”
The knife slices through the air in a wide arc as I wave my hands, and suddenly Julian’s complaining stops. His eyes go wide, then confused, then oddly peaceful as a thin red line opens across his throat like a zipper.