Page 24

ADRIAN

THE NEXT MORNING…

M y head was pounding, thrumming against my temples like a jackhammer trying to crack through skull instead of concrete.

A dull pain radiating down my jaw and up through my sinus cavity.

My arms stiff and in desperate need of electrolytes.

But I could move them. Enough to apply pressure just under my eyes, using the nasalis muscle to ease some of the tension on my face, before I cracked my neck from side to side.

I took a deep breath and immediately shot up in bed at the distinct odor of copper.

Blood. Dried and tacky against my skin. My fingertips.

Drip marks down my wrists. Hours old. Then I glanced to my left and spotted the little blade, its mirror image imprinted on my sheets.

An outline of dark red and brown against a bleach-white backdrop.

Accompanied by the kind of splattering that suggested it had landed there wet.

I needed to think. To remember how I got here.

And figure out whose blood was quite literally on my hands.

But everything was a blur. Until another familiar scent made its way to my nostrils.

My shirt smelled like her. Her bodily fluids mixed with her perfume.

Marisela. I could still taste her on my tongue too. Salty and addictive.

I’d scaled the side of the estate and climbed into her window again. Sat in her room and waited. She’d been upset over something. And wanted to forget. And I’d wanted to be the one to help her do it.

There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that girl…

I remembered placing the tab on my tongue—I had to increase the dose to account for our combined body weights.

And even though it wasn’t an exact science with all the variables that came with skin-to-skin absorption, one tab shouldn’t have been enough to leave me feeling so disoriented. Unless I’d cooked up a bad batch.

I knew I hadn’t. I was too good at what I did.

I pushed up from the mattress, stained with blood that I was certain wasn’t my own, and followed the trail that led to my bedroom door.

Down the long hall and out the back entrance.

Where it stopped abruptly. Likely absorbed into the grass and washed away by the rain I could still feel thickening the air.

This place was a giant crime scene with a bright-red arrow pointing in my direction.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was I didn’t remember doing it.

Who it was or how the fuck I got home. Which made covering my tracks that much harder, especially when the white spot on my black pants suggested I’d left a decent amount of DNA behind.

I couldn’t panic, though. Panicking was what got most killers caught.

So I shoved down the memory of Marisela clawing at my back, refusing to even consider the implications, and got to work.

I might have fucked up. That didn’t mean I had to be a fuckup. I could fix this. I had to fix this.