The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(35)

He’s too weak. He’s not going to make it.

It was different with Meredith. She was likely unconscious before she grasped what was happening, unlike this poor soul who must know he’s dying, an ugly, painful death at that.

With Meredith, it wasn’t ugly and painful.

It wasn’t impulsive, and it wasn’t about anger. No, it was about—

Well, it was far more complicated than anyone could possibly understand. But it was the right thing to do.

This . . .

This was probably the wrong thing.

It was probably the wrong thing? It was definitely the wrong thing!

Look at him! Look what you did to him!

The man on the ground moans again.

Oh, dear.

“I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but . . . I only wanted to be left alone. Why did you have to stop me and ask for a light? Why couldn’t you just walk on past me?”

Another moan, the low, terrible sound of an animal being tortured.

This is bad. This is wrong.

But I couldn’t help myself.

He kept talking, and he said the wrong thing, and . . . and I’ve been under so much pressure these last few days with everything, that I just . . .

Snapped.

Yes, snapped, like a turtle, when someone gets too close.

Now someone is suffering.

Because of me.

No—that’s wrong. This isn’t my fault. It’s his.

“You know, I told you I didn’t have a light! Why didn’t you let me walk away? Why did you have to try to make conversation? Who does that at this hour on a deserted street? Who are you? Who are you?”

Unlike Meredith, this person is a stranger in every sense of the word.

Unlike Meredith, he’s suffering terribly.

All that’s visible of his face in the predawn shadows is his mouth, surrounded by a stubbly growth of beard. Just a few minutes ago the mouth was smiling and forming questions, far too many questions. Now, it’s contorted in agony, and blood is beginning to gush from it.

I can’t stand to see him in pain, whoever the hell he is.

He’s a human being.

I’m a human being, for Pete’s sake. I have a heart. No matter what anyone thinks . . .

But who would think anything different?

No one in this world knows what really happened to Meredith, and no one is going to figure it out.

As for this stranger . . .

I have to do something to help him. Out of the goodness of my heart.

But . . . ugh. The lower part of the knife handle is covered with blood that’s still gushing from the wound.

I wish I had gloves. From now on I should never go anywhere without gloves in my pocket.

Gloves were an integral part of Saturday night’s plan.

But this, today, wasn’t planned by any means. This was a spur of the moment impulse, an instinctive reaction.

Turtles only snap because they’re trying to protect themselves.

That’s the reason I snapped. It’s the reason I was even carrying the knife in the first place.

This is a relatively safe part of town, but no neighborhood is immune to crime. At this hour, before the world has fully stirred to life, it would be foolhardy to walk the streets alone without some form of protection. You just never know what kind of lunatic might be lurking around the next corner.

That’s why the knife was such a great find when it turned up in a secondhand store a while back.

“Now this here’s a great tool,” the shop owner said, demonstrating how the knife’s four-inch blade opened and closed. “See how it folds up so that it’ll fit right into your pocket?”

Yes. It was a great tool. But hardly worth the asking price.

The owner begged to differ. “That’s a valuable antique, my friend. The handle is the real thing, not imitation. You can’t buy something like this anymore. They outlawed using tortoiseshell a hundred years ago.”

“Not a hundred years ago. Not even fifty. It’s old, but technically it’s not an antique. Tortoiseshell was banned in 1973 under the Convention of International Trade on Endangered Species.”

The owner’s eyes widened. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”

A lot better than you know yours.

In the end, the man was willing to bargain the price down.

And he was right. The knife is a great tool.

A great tool that is now sticking out of a stranger’s abdomen.

I need to get it back. I need to get out of here.

In the distance a dog is barking.

If it’s the puppy, still running loose with a leash dangling from its collar, there’s no telling what might happen. Someone might already have found the animal; might come looking for the owner right now.

Gloves or no gloves, it’s time to act.

The knife handle is slick with blood. But with one firm tug the blade lifts right out of the man’s bleeding torso.

The morning light seems to have shifted; his eyes are visible now, focused with surprising clarity, pleading, pleading . . .

“All right. I really am sorry about this, and . . . and I’ll help you. Okay? I’ll make it easier for you.”

The man turns his head and closes his eyes as if he knows what’s coming next—as if he can’t bear to watch, or perhaps, as if making it easier for everyone, granting access by turning his neck at just the right angle for the blade to slice neatly through his jugular.