Page 60 of Alik

“I…” My eyes flood with tears as I wrap my arms around myself. “I’ve been under a lot of stress, and sometimes when that happens?—”

“You murdered the lady down the hall who always wears the purple lipstick.”

Mrs. Barkley.

I clamp my eyes shut and cover my mouth.

“Stabbed her four times in the stomach because she called you a slut. That’s whose blood you’re cleaning up, in case you truly don’t know and aren’t just fucking with me.”

No.

No, no, no.

A sob crawls up my throat, and I fall to my knees, my feet landing in my neighbor’s blood. She was a mean old woman, but unlike Alik, she returned my Tupperware I put her brownies in.

And she didn’t deserve to die.

Alik’s retreating footsteps are followed by the fridge door opening. I ignore him as I turn around and force my eyes to open. I touch the red, wet carpet while my chest heaves with sobs.

When Alik approaches, I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t know what I did to him, but right now, he isn’t the one who most deserves my remorse.

“Olive,” he says, bending down and planting a hand on my shoulder.

I jerk away from his touch. “Don’t touch me,” I sneer between sobs. “You obviously don’t care about this woman, but I do. So just leave me alone.”

“What?” He laughs incredulously. “Idon’t care about her?”

I whirl around to face him, my teeth bared. “You should’ve stopped it! You’re twice my size and several times as strong. You could’ve easily disarmed me.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you wentAmerican Psychoon Purple Lips?” He scoffs. “I don’t know which version of you is crazier.”

“Her name was Mrs. Barkley,” I say, tears streaming down my face.

He stares at me with condemnation a few more seconds before his expression relaxes, and he flicks his eyes over my cheeks. His hand reaches out to brush away tears, only for more to replace them moments later.

“Okay.” He nods, caressing my jaw. “You’re regretful. I get it.”

“No, you don’t.” I shake my head. My stomach twists into knots then pulls taut, yanking me forward in agony.

How many times is this going to happen?

How many times will I wake up next to someone I hurt?

How long before that person is Alik?

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t do it to him.

I’d rather die than do it to him.

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened,” I say, remembering Damian’s dead eyes. I woke up in his bed then rolled over, as I had this morning, except that time, I felt a body. He was wet with blood, and when I opened my eyes to see his throat slashed, I let out a blood-curdling scream that woke our neighbors.

I’d had so many drugs in my system that the police assumed I’d been passed out through his murder. No one suspected me, other than my family. I was questioned at the scene then never again.

But I knew. The moment I saw him, I knew it was me.

There’d been signs. A drawing of him in my sketchbook with his throat slashed, screenshots sent from his phone to mine, showing his messages with Creeper.

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