Page 91 of Oliver

“Isn’t it? You see, little girl, I find it very suspicious that he joined right around the time your crazy sister died.” His eyes bore into my skull, and I raise my hand, palm up.

“Please.”

“It’s too late for that I’m afraid,” he says, rounding the bed. There’s nowhere for me to go, so I back into the corner as he approaches, grabbing the only possible thing I can use as a weapon—the lamp beside my bed.

Once again, he smiles and I curl my lip, holding the damn thing over my head. When he pauses, holding up his hands, I eye him carefully. We’re essentially at a standoff until he lunges, grabbing my wrist and squeezing until the pain causes me to open my fingers.

The lamp falls to the floor with a dull thud, and he pulls me forward before pushing me ahead of him. The minute he lets go of my wrist, I rush to the door, only to cry out when he grabs my hair. I cover his hand holding me in a vice but I’m no match for his strength.

“I guess it’s my job to clean up the mess, hm?” He speaks as though we’re chatting over a fucking beer and all at once, rage suffuses my soul.

“Fuck you,” I spit, and he wrenches on my head.

“Fuck me? Hm. I don’t think so. The only one fucked in this scenario is you. You should have been smart like your sister.”

“Really? That got her dead,” I rasp, and he chuckles.

“True but at least she had potential.”

“Potential for what? To be a fucking psycho?” I screech, pulling back even though it feels like I left half my hair behind.

I waste no time scrambling toward the door but he’s on me before I reach the hall. The momentum is too great, especially with his weight against my back and stumbling, I fall on my face.

“Unh,” I groan as he presses his boot against my back.

“Let’s try this again, you little bitch. You go quietly or I make you and it won’t be pretty. Besides, you wouldn’t want to involve your lover, would you?”

My stomach roils and I shake my head. I don’t want Oliver hurt because of me. Not because of this fucked up mess that I’ve gotten myself into despite all his warnings, veiled or not.

“Good.” He lifts me and sets me on my feet. I wobble for a minute before stepping before him.

I know that if I let him take me from this house, I’m dead. That’s a certainty but how do I get him to back the fuck off? I have no weapon and my strength is puny compared to his, but I have to do something, anything.

At the base of the stairs, I hesitate, and he grabs the back of my neck. “No funny business, remember? I can make this easy or really fucking hard. If your sister was here, she could tell you that the easy way is far preferable.”

His fetid breath brushes my cheek and I turn away, muttering, “What are you talking about? Dixie died from a drug overdose.”

“Did she? Hm, too bad. Bitches like her need to be taught their place.”

Weird, I always thought despite finding no proof that Charlie was there the night Dixie died. What other excuse could there be for the theatrics? I guess it doesn’t matter because he’s here now and every time he smiles, it does crazy things to my insides and not in a good way.

I’m pretty sure that’s why I do the unthinkable, and I don't even care that it hurts me just as much as it hurts him.

Grabbing his shirt, I tug. The air whooshes around me and I close my eyes as we both tumble down the stairs. I think I hit every bump and curve on the way, evading his flailing limbs as best I can. At the bottom, my chin slams against the wood floor and I groan. Wasn’t I in this same damn spot not too long ago?

The coppery tang of blood fills my throat and I cough, spewing it across the floor. I think I bit my tongue because it aches like a motherfucker, in direct competition with my knee which took the greatest impact when I landed.

When I look to my left, I find him staring at the ceiling with a weird expression and push to my feet, staggering toward the kitchen. This isn’t over yet and despite the new aches cascading over my limbs, I pass through the threshold of the dining room.

The soft whoosh of what I presume to be his feet on the floor sends my heart into my throat and I race around the island before pulling out the first drawer. Blindly I stare at the contents before shaking my head and shoving it closed. With the next, I pull so hard that it crashes to the floor.

“You know why that little bitch died?” he rasps, and I look up before dropping to my knees and picking over the mess. “Because she was weak. Just like you.”

“No. No,” I mumble as I push everything around before pausing on the meat tenderizer. Images of my mom slamming that thing into a piece of chicken fly through my head as I test its heft in my palm. It will have to do because I can hear him. He’s really fucking close.

I’m hoping he suffered worse injuries than me as I suck in a breath, and round the corner before leaning against the wall. He’s really damn slow, which is a point in my favor but if my hammering fucking heart doesn’t slow down, I may not hear him when the time is right.

“I tried to help her when she came to me,” he says. “That boy was a fucking fool, he was. Did you know your own flesh and blood was gonna kill you, bitch? That’s right. She planned to slit your throat while you slept.”

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