Page 92 of Bake the Town Red

“Hello, handsome.”

The knife stays in place. She’s threatening me.

She’s about to pay for this.

Oh, is she going to pay for this.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dahlia

“Wake up, Dalí.” My brother. Alive. Covered in blood and guts.

Other people’s blood. Other people’s guts.

Our neighbors’.

“Wake up, Dalí.”

They’re on his shirt. His jeans. His brown hair is the color of copper. His brown eyes are huge and wild.

“I’m up.” My voice comes out choked. It’s hard to talk when I’m hovering over Mrs. Price’s body and pushing her intestines back inside. Takes a lot of work. The fuckers are slippery. “I’m up.”

She’s crying.

“Dalí, wake the fuck up.” Ian takes a step closer. His knife has done so much damage today. Too much damage. I’d be mesmerized if not for poor Mrs. Price.

What would I tell Tyler? How would I live knowing my brother ended the life of the woman I consider my grandma?

Bloop.Another organ slips out of her. Her heart this time, out from beneath the ribs. Just pops out and onto the floor. As still as a stone. Definitely not beating.

I want to scream. I can’t scream.

“We can save her. Help me, please.”

“I am helping.” Ian’s on his knees the next second. At my side.

Good, he’ll fix this. Ian could always fix everything. Other than Al. No one could fix that bastard.

“I didn’t mean to hurt Mrs. Price.” His eyes cut to mine. Dark and brimming with tears. “I didn’t mean to. You have to know that. I…I snapped.”

“I know, Ian.” My hand curls on his bloodstained cheek. “I kno—”

“Stay right there!” Someone’s at the door.

I can hardly see who that is before my brother’s brains are all over the red sweater Tyler got me for my birthday. With my parents, Ian and Al gone, every cent we had is mine. I can afford my own clothes.

But Tyler says he loves getting me gifts.

An earthquake rattles the walls in Tyler’s apartment. No. They don’t rattle. They swoop. Like a ship when its bow hits a mean wave. I’ve never been on a ship before, but it feels like a wave. A tidal wave. A tsunami.

“Wake up,” Ian’s dead mouth implores me.

His face changes while he does.

His maddened expression morphs into a harsher one. Stoic instead of psychotic and dead. The eyes glaring at me are alive. They aren’t lost. The cheekbones are higher. Hair cut on the sides instead of being longish and messy.

“Tyler?” A smile curves on my lips.

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