Page 92 of Lesson Learned

I change the phone settings to remove the login so I can access the phone freely, then have to dip through the hole in the floor to authorise it with James’ thumb. It goes in the pile with my clothes. No one else is getting their hands on it unless things go pear-shaped.

The shower turns off and I replace the manhole cover, sliding the drawers back into place, smoothing the bedspread. I pull a dress from the hanger of fresh clothing and lay it on the bed, ready.

When I spin on my heel, there’s barely any trace.

There are still smears of blood on the floor, on the walls, that’ll need proper cleaning. Once that’s done, I’ll go through the manhole and drag James closer to the grate. A place I can access him from outside.

From there, I can call Patrick and arrange for him to disappear.

My brain runs through the list again. Again. Again. Poking and prodding and trying to see where the holes are so I assess the risk before I embark on the plan.

What else?

I close my eyes, ticking items off a list. Her DNA will be on him, through the sheets if nothing else. I’d love to set fire to him, watch his dead eyes as he burns, but that won’t work.

A few bottles of bleach should dampen law enforcement’s ability to get a useable sample. Even if it doesn’t degrade everything, it’ll make things more difficult.

The best result would be to get the body out and away before anyone finds it, but I won’t know the possibility of that until I call.

Still ticking items off my list and adding new ones as I think of them, I go into the bathroom to help Paisley get dressed and scope out the damage he inflicted on her.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

PAISLEY

The towels are gone.I use my jersey to dry myself, then turn to examine my rear end in the mirror. There’s a cut near where my jeans waistband would sit. The knife dug into me as easily as it sliced through the cotton fabric.

I hear Conner moving about in my bedroom, but I can’t make myself open the door.

Much as I hate James for what he’s done to me, what he’s done to Floss and Marnie and god knows who else, I don’t want his blank eyes staring at me. Bad enough when they filled with panic after I stabbed him.

The wound wasn’t aimed at his spine, that was just in front of me when I blindly stabbed. All I wanted was for him to stop.

If he’s dead, that’s my fault.

Right now,everythingfeels like my fault.

At first, my fear was manageable. Given it’s the third time he’s attacked me, it fell into a routine.

Then he pulled his phone out, started recording, and said he’d show Marnie the edited version later. Show what a slut I was, fucking her best friend’s boyfriend.

That word.

That threat.

I thought James was kind of stupid, but he stitched together a nightmare scenario perfectly tailored to play on my worst fears.

That’s not stupidity. That’s a fucking skill.

“Hey,” Conner says, slowly pulling the door open. Moving carefully. Choosing his words carefully. He’s probably counting down the seconds until he can escape from the madwoman he was unfortunate enough to sleep with. A violent slut of a murderer who doesn’t deserve happiness, pleasure, or love.

All the terrible things people have ever said about me—they’re true. They have been true all along; it just took until now to prove it to myself. I have no morals, no conscience.

“Here,” he says, helping me into a clean dress he must have pulled from my drawers. I step and lift and thread my arms and legs through in response to his directions. He makes it all so easy. Telling me exactly what to do.

“Do you think I’ll be allowed to take a book into the police cell?”

Because he must have called the police. That’s the first thing any normal person would do.

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