The Retribution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer, #3)(29)

Those were the first words I said to him that seemed to sink in. He looked back and forth between me and Stella, then finally stepped away from her. He trained his gun on me.

“You,” he said to Stella. “You stand there and watch.”

Stella scooted down the wall till she was backed up against the sink. My feet carried me toward Mr. Ernst without me even having to tell them to.

“Don’t scream,” Mr. Ernst said. He pressed his gun into my side, spun me around, and pushed me against the wall, pinning my hands behind me in one well-practiced move. His cowboy hat fell to the ground.

I expected my heart to race, my skin to sweat. I expected to cry and scream.

I didn’t.

“Don’t touch me,” I said instead.

He laughed. It was a little boy’s laugh, a giggle really. “Don’t touch you? If you didn’t want to be touched, you wouldn’t be wearing those shorts! Why, they’re an invitation! You’re advertising. Open for business.”

He did something lewd with his tongue. I imagined cutting it off.

“Take them off,” he said, nodding at my stupid boxers.

“I can’t,” I said plainly. “Not without my hands.” I wriggled my arm behind me. I reached my hand into the waistband of the boxers and felt the scalpel, warm from my skin. My shoulder ached, wrenched behind my back and forced into the wall by the pressure of Mr. Ernst’s body. His breath roared in my ears, rotten tobacco mingling with the stench of human waste.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ernst appeared to be having trouble with his pants. I wriggled my arm behind my back, which unfortunately arched my body toward his. He took it as encouragement.

“I knew you wanted it,” he whispered into my ear. Then he licked my cheek.

“The tongue definitely has to go,” someone said in my voice.

I looked up into the cracked mirror behind him and Stella. My reflection stared back. She shook her head in disgust. Neither Stella nor Mr. Ernst seemed to notice.

A small shift in movement, and the scalpel was in my hand. I tucked it against my forearm, holding it tightly against my skin. It was sharp enough to cut me.

I swallowed, then said, “I need my hands. I can’t do anything without my hands.”

He adjusted his gun, poking it under my ribs, then nodded once quickly.

I brought my hands in front of me, tugging the waistband of the WELCOME TO THE SUNSHINE STATE boxers down with my thumbs. Mr. Ernst was watching, but not closely enough. Stella had fled. And before he could even register the movement, I stabbed him in the eye. He screamed until I cut his throat.



I took his keys and his gun when I was finished. Before I left, I glanced up at my reflection in the dark, cracked mirror. The asinine WELCOME TO THE SUNSHINE STATE T-shirt was streaked and soaked with Mr. Ernst’s blood, and so was my skin. It was under my fingernails, in my hair. It freckled my face.

I stared at my reflection, waiting for a rush of disgust or terror or regret—something. But it never came.





18


I KNEW WHAT I LOOKED like as I walked calmly back to the truck. Jamie and Stella were already on their way back to find me.

“Fuck,” Jamie said when he saw me. That about covered it.

“I’m okay. Get into the truck.”

“Is he . . .”

Yes. Yes, he is.

“I have the keys,” I said. “We need to go.”

Stella reached out her hand. It was shaking. “Keys?” she asked as Jamie pulled me up into the cab. I reached into my pocket and tossed them at her.

“What—what happened?” Jamie asked.

I looked out the window, catching my reflection in the side-view mirror. She shrugged. “He made a mistake,” I said quietly. I began to notice the blood drying on my skin. I felt sticky. Dirty. I pulled my hair back into a knot. It was clotted with blood.

“Mr. Ernst?” Jamie asked. “Did he touch you?”

“He tried,” I said under my breath.

“Mara.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m okay.” It was true enough. I wasn’t hurt. “He thought I was someone else.”

Jamie’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Who?”

“Someone who wouldn’t fight back. Listen, we need to go.” I withdrew Mr. Ernst’s gun from the back of my boxers and shoved it into the glove compartment. Jamie’s mouth hung open, disbelieving.

“Did you shoot him?” Stella was looking at the floor of the cab. Her voice sounded hollow, like she wasn’t really there.

I shook my head. “He had the gun. He was pointing it at me. I cut him while he was trying to . . . undress.”

“I should have stayed with you guys,” Jamie said. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Stella’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her face was pale and bloodless. “Mara helped me,” she said, as if to herself. “And then she had to help herself. It was self-defense.” She began to nod. “I saw it, most of it, before I ran to get you, Jamie. So we can call the police and tell them—”

“We can’t call the police,” Jamie said. His voice was muffled. He had put his head between his knees. “You know we can’t.”

Stella closed her eyes and squeezed them shut. “Right. Right. Okay, so, Mara wouldn’t have done anything unless she had to—and she had to.”