Jane Doe(52)

I lower the knife until the next deep breath pushes his skin into the point. When he exhales, a tiny nick is revealed. Another inhalation, another little pinprick. I leave five behind. The first is bright red now. I press my thumb to it and smear the faintest bow of blood across his skin. Finger painting.

What do I want to remove? I’ve never cut anyone before, and there are so many choices. His genitals for pointing his selfish body in Meg’s direction. His eyes for the pictures he wanted and kept and used. His stupid tongue for all the evil words he beat her with. His treacherous, traitorous, ugly goddamn heart.

All of it.

I drag the blade over his penis again. And again. The metal makes a sweet chuffing sound against the skin as the shaft gently swells.

This is where I’ll start. So Steven can wake up and look down with clear eyes and see that he’s losing the center of his universe.

I angle the blade. I poise the tip to split his dick open from base to crown.

Except . . . I don’t. I don’t cut him.

I want this with every fiber of my being, but my heart rate has calmed and I know I can’t. There’s evidence of me everywhere. At work, in his phone, on surfaces here at his house and in his car. My DNA is all over his body and his bed. It’s on the empty beer bottles and the crumpled napkins in the trash.

I’ve marked him as surely as a cat marks its possessions, and if I kill him this way, I’ll never escape it. I could probably avoid capture, but I could never go back to my comfortable life.

I should have killed him the moment I stepped into town, but I was seduced by the fun of it, of invading his life and toying with him, making him into the ultimate fool.

Conceit is my greatest weakness. I know this. It’s why I inserted myself into his world instead of keeping my distance. Because I wanted to feel him slide into my trap.

It’s why I used my real first name instead of a complete alias. I wanted him to know it was me doing this to him. Me, even if he never connected the dots. Me Jane, as primitive as it was in the old Tarzan movies.

Good times indeed, but now there’s a price to pay. I can’t do what I want.

Damn it. I despise consequences.

But I reassure myself: it’s only a momentary sacrifice. I’ll find another way. He deserves to die. I can see that now. I’ll find a way to take his worthless life without risking my own. I will. I whisper it aloud: “I’ll find another way, Meg.”

But I don’t believe there’s any part of Meg left in the universe to hear me, and the sad truth is she wouldn’t want me to hurt him anyway. That won’t dissuade me. This isn’t about honoring her wishes. If she’d wanted a say in this, she should have stuck around.

I stare at him for another minute, letting my heart believe I could still kill him. Then I return the knife to the block and shut off the lights. I don’t look at the pictures again because I can’t risk the rage. But I can’t allow him to ever look at the pictures again either. He killed her, and he used these photos as a murder weapon even as he delighted in jerking off to them.

I delete the entire folder. Then I climb into bed with Steven. He’ll never know it was me. Even if he suspects, he’ll assume I was only jealous.

I try to settle into bed, but I realize I’m aroused by my close brush with vengeance. So I masturbate, turned on by the idea of hurting him, turned on by the camera, turned on by the video I’ll watch later of me hovering on the edge of murder.

When I’m finished, I tuck us both in and fall quickly asleep.





CHAPTER 35

I’m up before him in the morning, thanks to my not mixing drugs and alcohol. I shower and dress and put eggs and bacon on the stove before returning to the bedroom.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

He opens his eyes slowly. “Oh. Hey.”

“I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up. Sleep well?”

“I guess I did.” He stretches hard.

“I’m cooking breakfast. It should be ready in two minutes.”

I’m not a great cook, but I can handle breakfast, at least—not that I’ve made it for many men. Even if a guy sleeps over, I’m not looking to make him feel cherished.

Steven arrives at the table in sweatpants, rubbing a hand through his tousled hair. He sits down and waits while I find plates and silverware. The timer on his coffee maker kicks in and the machine begins brewing while I serve my lover his plate. Two eggs, three strips of bacon, and a little kiss on the mouth to add sweetness.

“Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s easy to play the passive, clueless girlfriend this morning because I woke up with a plan. And I think it’s a good one.

“God, I slept great,” he says. “You really wore me out.”

I giggle and serve myself one egg and two strips of bacon like the modest lady I am. “You seemed pretty satisfied.”

He stretches again, then reaches down to scratch his bare belly. I hear the scritching of nails against skin and then he winces. “Huh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Something bit me.” He’s hunched over, trying to get a good look at the little cuts I left in him.

I get close and crouch down. “Let me look.” I make a show of peering at the tiny marks. “I’m not sure. It looks like maybe something bit you and then you scratched it while you were sleeping.”