Page 35 of Teach Me
Total devastation glared back at her from every corner of her home. Shards of glass from the mirror over the mantel created a minefield across the carpet, mixing with stuffing from the furniture and pages— Damn, not her books. Tears welled as she scanned the bare shelves of her bookcase. Her precious books, the source of so much of her comfort, her passion, lay scattered in pieces across the living room. Not one that she could see had survived intact. Neither had her curtains. Lamps. The blanket that used to rest on the back of her couch.
The presence of a crime-scene tech taking pictures barely registered, the bright white of the camera taking pictures turning the frightening images of destruction into a surreal flash frame of deepening horror, pain, and anger.
Shredded bits of leather over exposed springs.
Flash.
Paper confetti, the printed words torn to small bits of gibberish.
Flash.
Cris’s smiling face, slashed to pieces in a twisted picture frame.
Flash.
Strangers’ eyes staring everywhere she turned.
Flash.
Even worse—if it could get worse—were the brutal words painted across her now bare walls. The artwork she’d saved for months to buy, the awards from school and work, all had been torn down, creating bright white canvases for slashes of vibrant red paint. The words sank into her soul and, oddly enough, sparked a strange sort of relief. This was familiar, at least.
Whore.
Slut.
Cunt.
Every derogatory epithet she could think of glared from the walls that had once kept her safe, screaming into her mind. She felt dirty in a way she didn’t think a thousand showers could ever remove, a way that was as familiar as the words she read. The warm slide of Conlan’s arm around her shoulders registered briefly before he tugged her toward him. She fisted his T-shirt at the base of his spine, needing a handhold, something solid, grounding.
“Come on, Jess,” he said softly, reaching with a tissue he got from God knew where to wipe her face. “They need to know if anything’s missing.”
Her laugh was incredulous, the rising hysteria obvious even to her ears. How the hell could she tell? But she pushed forward without asking that. People talked around her, asked questions, snapped pictures, bagged evidence, but none of it truly registered anymore.
The kitchen… Well, walking farther than the doorway was impossible. Even the fridge stood open, food spilled inside and out, adding insult to injury.
The hallway light drew her attention to great slashes of crimson almost as tall as Jess. The edge of what she could handle approached fast, but she couldn’t stop herself from reading the message left for her:
I warned you.
Yes, you did,she thought, the pictures she’d received flashing in her mind. She’d chosen to fight rather than ignore them. Apparently Brit got her message.
Her stomach churned.
She moved forward.
Her bedroom door.No more waiting.
Inside, red paint showered the ripped mattress and torn bedding; the scattered, slashed clothing; her shattered laptop, looking as if a ball-peen hammer had taken it apart piece by piece. But it was the final message, dripping garishly above her headboard, that truly chilled her blood.
Mine. My fucking mouse.
Jess gagged.
“What is it, baby?”
Conlan’s voice was a mere whisper in her ear. Without thought, her hand rose to stroke the barely visible scars across her throat, a throat closed tight with fear as memories rushed her.
Mine. My fucking mouse.
