Page 48 of I Will Break You

AMETHYST

I return shaken to Parisii Drive, having spent the night sleeping in my car. Mom rushed into the bedroom after I screamed and tried to convince me that what I saw was a hallucination.

It wasn’t.

The vision of Uncle Clive hovering over me is hermetically sealed in my brain and playing on repeat. I don’t understand why Mom would fight so hard to protect a predator. It’s obvious that he planned to suffocate me with that pillow.

The words, ‘I know what you did’ run through my mind like a mantra. Was he talking about the time I pushed Mr. Lawson off the school’s roof garden? Men who get hounded by vigilante mobs probably despise girls who take justice into their own hands.

At this time of the morning, my road is quiet, save for the distant rumble of traffic. Sunlight warms the townhouses’ facades, making the road look like it isn’t a murder spot. I step out of the car and hover outside my door, wondering what I’ll find inside. Jake’s corpse? The Grim Reaper? Another red envelope containing Gavin’s left hand?

If Myra lived alone, I would drive straight to her place, butshe’s crashing on a friend’s couch. Besides, I love her too much to bring her into contact with an angry ghost.

Suppressing a shudder, I open my front door and step inside. The narrow hallway is exactly as I left it, but the house smells different. I sniff the air, filling my senses with the scent of sawdust, dirt, and formaldehyde. Or maybe what I’m sniffing is just hydrogen peroxide and blood?

I walk around, checking what might have changed in my week’s absence. There’s a bottle of Armagnac on the living room table but no glass. I must have left it there the day Gavin came to restore my account.

The green room is exactly the same, save for the faint smell of chemicals. I rub the back of my neck, wondering what it could mean, and continue to the kitchen.

My heart pounds as I glance around at the tiled floor and black cabinets, finding no traces of Jake’s corpse. It’s over. I got away with killing that asshole and disposing of his body. I won’t allow myself to feel an ounce of guilt because it was self-defense. If Jake wanted to stay alive, he shouldn’t have tracked me down and shoved his way into my home.

Fuck that guy. I hope he’s burning in hell.

As I turn back toward the hallway, my gaze lands on a flash of white. On the kitchen table lies a sheet of paper, still warped from being creased. Holding my breath, I walk over to scan its contents.

It’s a contract.

My stomach plummets.

Staring up at me is the agreement I signed with Xero. It’s written in his spiky handwriting and was meant to be a bit of fun—something to spice up the phone sex, where I let him know which sexual practices I wanted to explore and the ones that were hard limits.

With trembling fingers, I pick up the four sheets and review what I checked. I agreed to all forms of breath play, humiliation, facials, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism and a whole host of kinks. I wanted to try everything except watersports and scat.

After glaring at my signature on the back, I glance over my shoulder toward the hallway, expecting to see Xero’s ghost. Whenhe doesn’t materialize, I turn to the window and peer down the length of the garden but find no one standing by the trees.

I’m not hallucinating this piece of paper.

Someone or something has been in my house, and I won’t stick around to find out who.

A knock sounds on the front door, making my heart clench with alarm. I set down the sex contract and creep on tiptoes down the hallway toward the sound. My pulse pounds through my eardrums, sending its reverberations to my bones.

What if I open the door and find Jake’s corpse? That’s ridiculous. Nothing of the sort will happen because I’m back on the meds.

One cautious glance through the peephole tells me that I got rattled for nothing. It’s only Mrs. Baker. Relief loosens my chest, mingled with a touch of frustration. Why the hell am I always on edge? Every sound isn’t a bad omen. Shaking off those thoughts, I open the door.

Mrs. Baker is a retired actress in her late seventies, whom I’ve never seen without bright red lipstick or a smile. No matter the time of day, she’s always decked in something glamorous. This morning, it’s a cream cashmere sweater with matching lounge pants, which she’s paired with a string of pearls.

“Amethyst,” she says, her voice carrying like she’s onstage. “Reverend Tom said you wanted to see me.”

It takes a moment to register that she’s talking about the time I knocked on her door after she’d gone to sleep.

“Oh, it was nothing.” I run a hand through the blonde side of my curls. “I just wanted to know if you had a free room.”

She remains standing on the doorstep, waiting for me to elaborate, so I word-vomit the same garbled story about a friend who wanted a place to stay. When she continues staring, I gulp. What will I do if she mentions me dragging Jake’s corpse down to the cemetery?

“Have you completed the work?” she asks.

My brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

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