Page 8 of Cruel Beginnings

TAMARA

I wait until one in the morning to use my keycard to enter Smith Acquisitions. There’s a security kiosk with a guard at the front, but I know the layout of the building, and I know how to avoid him. Just in case George is working, I brought a canister of pepper spray with me, tucked safely in my pocket.

I go in the back, march up the stairs as if I own the place, and head straight through the ballroom.

And I walk into a scene from a horror movie.

The room is dark, and at first I try to tell myself that I can’t actually be seeing what I think I’m seeing.

A shadowy figure holding a knife in his right hand, looming over the splayed-out body of a man.

It’s a practical joke. It’s an hallucination.

No. I smell the new-penny scent of blood. It’s real.

My heart speeds up, jack-hammering so hard I’m sure it’s going to burst out of my chest,Alien-style. I’m sick with terror.

The man looks up and sees me, and he moves in a blur. I turn to run, then a blow to the side of my head sends me sprawling. I scrabble for the pepper spray and drop it, then I see it go flying, kicked out of my reach.

I’m going to die for a dollar store purse. Here in this darkened room. Tonight.

I should have just left the purse behind. I should have followed orders. I should have gone straight home like they told me to, and never come back to this beautiful slaughterhouse. Then I would never have seen what I’ve seen. I wouldn’t be gagging on the coppery reek of blood, cringing at the feet of the man with the knife.

Joshua Smith.

The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. But no, that can’t be right, because he’s going to end me. There’s nothing beautiful about that.

The only light in the room comes from a single table lamp with flared, frosted glass shaped like a tulip. And I’ve stumbled on a nightmare, one that has grabbed me with sharp talons and is dragging me straight to Hell.

The man lying on the floor at Joshua’s feet is George, the security guard. He’s not dead yet. His eyes are bulging, and he’s trying to talk, but all that comes out of his mouth is bubbles of blood and horrible gurgling noises. He’s lying in a red lake that’s spreading across the parquet floor.

With shaking hands, I reach out to him. I’m going to press my hands against his wounds. I took a first aid class once. I chant the instructions in my head.Apply pressure to the wound. Slow down the blood flow.

Why? There’s no ambulance coming for him.

But that’s what you do. You see someone hurting, you try to help them. Even a pig like George.

I’m going to die very soon, but I’m going to die as myself. As a person who helps.

“Don’t.” The steely command slices through the air above me.

Fuck you. Why would I obey the man who’s going to kill me?

I don’t even look up. I ignore him and press my hands against George’s chest.

Suddenly a hand grabs me by the hair and yanks me back, hauling me across the floor.

“I saiddon’t.”

Instantly my scalp is on fire. I howl in pain and my hands fly up, grabbing at his wrist to take some of the weight off, because I feel like my whole scalp is about to be ripped from my head.

This is it. This is the end.

I slash myself with blame.I’m an idiot. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have come back for the purse.

The purse is nothing. It’s cracked black plastic, with a fraying red heart set into the front panel. But to me, it’s priceless. It was one of the last things my mother ever gave me. She shoplifted it, just like the few other things she gave me over the years. It was the only time she remembered my birthday.

And now it’s going to be the end of me.

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