Page 52 of Broken Skulls

It’s like a knife to the gut.

“It’s already happened. I’ve already survived it.”

We left most of the evidence of his depravity behind to be destroyed. The only thing we took was one of the paintings.

I know now why she hid her daughter. He needs to be erased from this earth.

Because I can’t imagine finding out your biological father is a monster who loves the dead.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Elizabeth

Jesse should be here soon. She said she would be back for me before the guys got home.

They have him. They have him. They have him.

I try to control my breathing as the dark red paintings float in front of my face in the darkness. The faint smell of old pennies permeates the air.

Maybe I should have taken her up on her offer to stay at the warehouse last night. Something brushes over my chest, and I shiver. What if he’s dead? What if his spirit is here in this room with me. I turn my head, realizing it was my own hair that tickled me.

Suddenly, the room feels like it’s closing in on me. I sit up abruptly, spilling the orange juice Jesse left for me last night. The smell of copper intensifies, filling my nostrils with the tangy scent. Bile burns at my throat.

Why are my fingers sticky?

It’s just the juice.

Or is it?

I still.

I can’t move, or it will make it worse for me.

His paintbrush drags across my skin.

“Such a good girl.”

The door to the room slams open, chasing Mr. Baxter away.

Jesse stands on the threshold, the light behind her almost blinding me. I blink, peeking at her from between my fingers.

“You know,” she says lazily, leaning against the doorframe. “I get this room. I do.” Her gaze roams over the space. “You’ve lived in the dark for a long time, but it’s time to walk through it. I understand, though. You get used to living in it. Familiarity disguises itself as safety. You become almost addicted to it. The pain. The fear. The thought of having to do it all on your own. I’ve been there.”

“You should be a therapist,” I say, laughing lightly.

She barks out a laugh of her own. “No one would pay me for the bullshit that comes out of my mouth. I’m just someone who lived it and made it to the other side.” She sits down beside me. “Besides, would a therapist help you plan your abuser’s death?”

When I look away from her, she continues. “Have you thought about what you want done with him? My husband called and said they’re on the way back.”

“I’ve thought about his death no fewer than a million times. In a million different ways,” I whisper.

She pulls me to my feet. “Better narrow it down then. My vote still involves fire. Come on, we’ll wait at the farm for them.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elizabeth

The grandfather clock ticks steadily, measuring the minutes that Mr. Baxter has to live. I sit against the couch, my fingers running over the old basset hound beside me. It’s strange. I never thought anyone would know about my high school teacher.

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