Page 30 of Bound to a Killer
I silence my phone and shove it away.
Things are close to spinning out of control if I keep pushing my luck. I have two choices: one straightforward and the other messy. If it wasn’t for my sudden burst of conscience, the first would’ve been done already. Death doesn’t have to be bad. It doesn’t always have to be this dragged-out, painful process. It can be short and sweet.
The more the thoughts churn in my head as I contemplate, the more I’m beginning to see things clearer from Tanner’s point of view.
Aria is starting to look like a lost cause.
To go back to how things were would mean her immediate death, and along with it, her entire existence would need to be wiped off the earth so her secret would stay buried. Forever.
It can be as simple as that. But it rests on me to pull the plug.
Tanner’s always been good at big talk, but when it came down to it, even he didn’t have it in him to get rid of her when he had the chance.
We’re stuck with a dilemma of my own making. And it isn’t anyone’s problem but mine to fix.
Time is slipping through our fingers, but once Frankie finds out about this, about her, it’s over. She’ll never let me live it down if I murder her. This wouldn’t get overlooked like the others. It’s different, and we all know it.
“Certain deaths aren’t necessary,” she’d argue. “Nothing is ever worth sacrificing your soul over.”
Except my soul’s already been tarnished. Not much is leftbesides a fine thread of morals still keeping me from losing sight of the man I used to be. I’m trying my damndest. Isn’t that why I took her in the first place? Of course I didn’t want to fucking hurt an innocent girl who got caught in the crossfire.
She’s one of the people I swore to protect from people like Evalyn and her bastard, sex-trafficking husband. God, I wish I was sent to deal with him instead. Then I wouldn’t be stuck in this shit.
I’ve run myself into a corner, and there’s no backing out now.
My fists curl at my sides as I imagine what it’d feel like to wrap them over her warm neck and compress. Morbid curiosity snakes its way through my thoughts, and I wonder how she’d react. Would her response be delayed, like it was at the Shaw mansion, or would it be sharp and desperate, like it was in the woods? Her reactions always seem to contradict themselves. It’s like she can’t decide whether her life is worth fighting for or not.
I turn away, heading for the bag still left on the corner table, and fish out a couple oatmeal packets along with the utensils. Using my teeth, I tear the first one open and lean over to the fridge, yanking it open to grab a water bottle from inside. Lukewarm. It won’t make for the best breakfast, but it’ll hold us over until we get out of here.
That’s the next plan. The messier choice out of the two. It’s one where she stays alive, but it’ll take some persuading to get Tanner on board.
I’m thinking we leave tomorrow. Contact one of the guys who used to forge paperwork for his folks back in Chicago.
Honestly, I’ve been thinking about severing ties with The Ringer for a while now, anyway. Retire myself, plant roots somewhere safe with Frankie. After everything we’ve been through, I owe her that much.
And it’s not like we need to stay tied to them for the money. We have enough stashed away to disappear within the week if we want.
I whisk the water into the oatmeal concoction until it’s as mixed as it’ll get, then glance at her, still pretending to sleep.
I don’t want to drag her to the table and force her to eat, but she needs to stop fighting me on the basics. As thin as she is, I’m not about to let her drop any more weight on my watch. Yesterday should have been a warning, a reminder of how things will go if she keeps pushing back.
In order for my plan to work, I need her compliant. If that means I have to force obedience into her, so be it.
It’s for her own good.
I slide a bowl with the spoon stuck to the lumpy mush across the opposite side of the table and call out to her. “Food’s ready.”
She stays quiet.
“I know you’re awake,” I say, taking a seat and eyeing her from the corner of my eye. “Let’s talk. I won’t ask again.”
She twitches before sitting up, a hand wrapping around her other shoulder to smooth out any kinks. I gesture toward the other side of the table, where her bowl waits.
“What’s the point?” she asks, her voice growing in confidence, but her fingers still pick at her shoulder in an anxious rhythm.
I clear my throat and pick up my own spoon, ready to dig into the pile of mush in front of me. “You won’t ever get out of here if you’re set on emaciating yourself.”
That gets her to come over. Slowly, cautiously, like she’s approaching a boogeyman, then takes a seat in front of me. Her eyes drop to the bowl, brows pulling together.
