Page 17 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)

How she plans on getting drinks when our faces are probably plastered everywhere…

that’s beyond me. I saw Artemis enough times to know she prides herself on being intelligent.

Getting drinks casually with a serial killer on the run is a truly dumb decision.

Maybe the professor is more involved in Porscha’s new life than I thought.

It doesn’t really matter, because if Porscha is ignorant enough to go and get drinks out in public while there’s a manhunt for her then maybe someone will figure out where the hell I am faster.

She starts to say something else before shaking her head, slamming the knife down on the little tray by the bed and kicking it away.

Damnit.

“You’re going to make me late with all this talk! Artemis and I are going to have drinks. You need to get over me, Alastair. You don’t belong in my life any longer, not in that way.”

I’m dumbstruck by her words. If it wasn’t for her I could still be sitting in my cell, slowly dying. I would definitely prefer that over this mindfuck.

I eye the tray as she starts muttering to herself. That knife would serve to sever the ties and get me the fuck out of here. I wish she would kick the tray back towards me.

“This thing isn’t doing the trick,” she sighs, pausing to glare at my IV. The constant hydration is nice, but it’s a real bitch since she hardly ever offers me anything real to drink. “I’ll switch the bag before I go. Your dosage is wearing off.”

I narrow my eyes, letting that settle in. She hasn’t injected me recently, and I’ll be honest, I have no idea how long ketamine stays in your system when directly sent into the bloodstream. “What dosage?”

“Boy, be reasonable. You think all I’ve done is give you shots to keep you down?

” She reaches out, patting my arm before massaging my bicep.

I might be losing mass while I’m stuck here, but I still have some bulk.

It’s just a matter of whether or not it’ll mean anything when I next get up.

She chuckles before she finally continues.

“There’s a slow drip of ketamine in the IV. Didn’t see that coming, did you?”

Well, that explains why it’s hard to stay aware of things. I just thought it was madness from being surrounded by all of Porscha’s weird keepsakes, but if she has a slow drip going I’m never sober. I can’t believe she hasn’t killed me yet. “Wow. You really put a lot of thought into this.”

Sighing, she steps back. From her pocket she pulls out a pack of smokes and a lighter, wiggling them at me as she lights one up. Disgust crawls through me as the stink of the cigarette settles over the room. It takes her way too long to smoke half the thing down and focus on me again.

“You know, I don’t need this right now,” she tells me, turning back again.

Grabbing each side of the table, she leans over and gets in my face.

I sneer back, half debating spitting in her face.

“I have plans. Things are happening for me, Alastair. Stop fucking it all up. You aren’t playing the game this time. ”

“If you mean I’m not helping you kill women anymore, you’re right. My kill list is short these days, Porscha.”

She laughs loudly, shaking her head. “Let me guess. I’m the only name on your list, right? Would you like to bleed me dry?”

I sneer up at her. “You and one fucked-up FBI agent, Porscha dear. Now, why don’t you go charm someone this routine still works on?

A scowl ripples across her face “Oh, Alastair, what did I ever see in you?”

For the first time in years, I decide to say it out loud. What do I have to lose? “A boy that looks a little like the man who fucked you over?”

She lets out an enraged scream, pivoting away from me at that. When she starts tearing down the clothes hanging around the room, it’s no surprise. I shouldn’t be poking the bear seeing as she’s about to leave, but it’s hard to help myself. Porscha ruined my life, and I’m still bitter about it.

She does a full circle in her rage, throwing a tantrum like a child as her voice hits an ungodly pitch. I flinch as it vibrates through my head, knowing I’ll have a headache that’s going to linger afterwards.

Then, like a fool, I close my eyes.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been in prison for over a decade that my senses aren’t as sharp as they used to be. Maybe it’s the drugs Porscha has been pumping into my body. But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden shock of pain that was planted in my leg and began to bloom.

I cry out as my eyes fly open to see the handle of the knife protruding from my leg.

The psycho bitch stabbed me.

When I look up at her, her eyes are wild—those green orbs colder and sharper than I’ve ever seen them. “You might remind me of James, but you aren’t him, Alastair. Soon, you’ll be nothing . Even your superfans won’t remember you when they have me to idolize.”

She turns as I gasp, fighting to grab the handle of the blade. She didn’t stab downwards into my thigh, she stabbed at an angle into the side of my leg, near my hip. The handle is long and the sound of her footsteps receding fades to the background as I stare at it.

Fuck me.

The ketamine drip is dulling my senses but not enough to numb the pain, and without a full damn injection I can feel the burn of the wound instantly.

There’s none of the numbness I’ve become accustomed to over the last few weeks, and all the joints and muscles that I’ve struggled to wiggle and move while I’ve been down here roar to life.

I groan, swallowing down any other noises. I need to see if I can get the blade out, because bleeder or not, I can’t do anything about the wound while I’m trapped here. And even if she stabbed me, she’s given me the one thing she’s tried to avoid this entire time.

A way out.

If I can survive the damage she’s done.