Page 95 of I Will Break You

Even my phone has been returned to the bedside table.

Things go quiet for the next few days. I stay offline, not wanting to read about the supposed murder-suicide. It doesn’t add up. The hangman had been so desperate to survive the night that he swung an ax into his partner-in-crime’s neck. Why thehell would he confess to a string of atrocities before committing suicide?

My mind conjures up the unsolicited answer: It’s because he was a different kind of monster.

What if he felt guilt about being forced to kill his friend? That’s what people who aren’t like us do. Feel things. I shake off that annoying thought. I felt something after killing Jake and Mr. Lawson, but it wasn’t remorse. More like the fear of getting caught.

I scan my laptop’s files to find that Xero returned the ghost story manuscript. At the bottom is a sentence I didn’t write:

How can I stay mad at someone so beautiful and talented? You have my permission to write fantasies of how you want me to pleasure you at night.

“Fucker,” I mutter under my breath and delete his words, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing the story.

For the next few days, Xero leaves me alone to write. I ignore every knock on the door, knowing it’s either the police or Reverend Tom checking on me, concerned about my bruised neck and my conduct at the supermarket when I was desperate for holy water and vodka.

I gave in to temptation, looked up erotophonophilia, and shuddered. It’s a fetish for murdering others. Nothing about watching the hangman murder Dick Johnson was erotic. If I climaxed, it was because Xero’s dildo hit the right spots. That’s it. Nothing more.

By now, homicide detectives would have found Myra and me on the security footage from the exhibition, the limousine, and the casino. They’ll want to question us both about what happened the night of the book fair.

But nobody rings my number, and I don’t make any calls. I don’t even leave the house.

Most nights, I wake up feeling a presence at my back. I don’t dare turn around or switch on the light. That shit didn’t work outfor Cupid and Psyche. Instead, I lie on my side, relax into the warm embrace, and return to sleep.

It feels like we’ve reached a truce. Now that I’ve given up on sharing his story, he’s no longer a threat. At least not to me.

One evening, as I’m putting the finishing touches to the erotic ghost romance, I’m interrupted by an insistent knock on the door. Ignoring it, I focus on the manuscript, but whoever’s outside powers up a drill.

Heart pounding, I run downstairs to the kitchen and grab a knife. I unlock the back door and step outside to escape, when two masked men in black emerge from the backyard.

“There you are,” one of them says.

I step backward. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He turns to his friend. “Uncanny, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen her look this frightened,” he replies with a chuckle.

My stomach churns. They’re not the police. Police wouldn’t snicker at a criminal’s terror. They have to be online trolls. Or fans of BJ and the Hangman who’ve come for revenge.

I point my knife at the pair. “Stay back or I’ll slit your throats.”

“Scary,” one of them says.

“Sexy.” The other snaps his teeth in my direction, making me flinch.

Backing toward the hallway, I swing my knife at the intruders, only to bump into a large body from behind. Thick arms wrap around my waist and lift me off the floor.

“You’re coming with us, doll,” the man growls into my ear. “But first, I want a taste.”

I open my mouth to scream, but a gloved hand clamps over it. When I swing the knife backward and hit flesh, he roars.

The one who snapped his teeth rushes forward to grab my wrist, and another punches me on the temple. Pain explodes across my skull, and I see stars.

“Bitch.” He grabs my neck and squeezes.

“Don’t do it,” I hear one of them say through the haze of agony.

He scoffs. “The boss won’t know if you don’t run your mouth.”

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