Page 47 of Bound to a Killer

She rushes over, hesitation gone. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay. Focus on my voice,” she says, her voice almost as tight as mine. “Feel my hands. You’re not there; you’re here.”

Her fingers are just as cold as they wrap around the fist balled up in my lap. The tension breaks enough for me to draw in a proper breath and lean away from her.

There’s a sorrowful glint in her eyes at my reaction, but I don’t acknowledge it.

Not unless she does something to help me.

“Please,” I gasp. “Help me get out of here and I swear I’ll never breathe a word about any of this for as long as I live. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to go h-home.”

Her eyes drop from mine, her hands slowly retracting. “I’m so sorry…but I can’t.”

My stomach sinks.

Of course. Did I really expect it to be any different?

I stare at her, already building up a wall as I prepare for whatever she has to say next.

“I wish I could help you, but it isn’t that simple.”

“It could be,” I quipped, refusing to let it drop. “We all want the same thing, don’t we? To keep all of this buried behind us?”

She doesn’t nod, but the lines on her forehead deepen.

“He killed a man to protect me,” I say with a drop in my voice. “I owe him to stay quiet.”

A silent plea spreads between us.

Please.

“It isn’t up to me,” she says, her eyes barely meeting mine.

The tightness between my brows shifts, no longer pleading but furious.

She’s just like the rest of them. Maybe even worse for doubling down after I’ve let her in on something so personal.

Her own throat bobs when she looks back to see me seething.

“You don’t get it. It’s not up to him, either. He’s trying to protect you,” she explains.

“Protect me fromwhat?”My pulse spikes. “From that other guy?”

Her brows furrow, like she can’t follow along with what I’m saying.

“The one you came with,” I clarify.

“Oh,” she breathes. “No, no! He’s one of the good ones.”

The good ones.

A silent laugh jabs at my chest as I mull that over.

“Tell me, then,” I say, “do good people drug a girl they see out running for help?” Her eyes harden on me. “How about murdering a woman in her home in the dead of night when she was least expecting it? Does that sound good to you?”

She pulls to a stand, putting a good distance between us. My words are unrelenting and sharp. All my fury has nowhere else to go.

Screw it if she’s mad. I’d like to see how she has the stomach to validate those atrocious acts, how she lets herself be okay with any of it.

Or maybe the anger stems from a deeper place that I won’t admit. One that’s clinging onto some form of rationalization, just to make this all easier somehow.