Dead Against Her (Bree Taggert, #5)(2)

When he doesn’t, I aim at his kneecap and fire. The gun bucks in my hand. Blood splatters. His body convulses, and he screams. He pulls hard at the binds around his wrists. The chair wobbles as he thrashes. He could overturn it if he keeps trying, but tipping over the chair won’t free him. Those knots are solid. He isn’t going anywhere.

I shoot him in the other knee. He screams again, the sound high-pitched, feral, and helpless.

The smells of gunpowder and blood fill the air.

“Do you believe me now?” I yell.

He groans. Tears and snot run down his face. Pain makes his eyes wild.

“You’re going to bleed to death, but it will take a long time.” I think about this. I want to make him suffer. I want to watch him die. But I can’t afford to stay here too long. The farm is isolated, but mail and packages are delivered regularly. Did she have any nosy neighbors?

I can’t take the chance of being caught. I won’t ruin the rest of my life. He’s already taken too much time from me. I deserve a future. Also, I don’t want to be forced to kill anyone who is truly innocent. I need to end this soon, before we are discovered. I point the gun at his shoulder and fire another shot.

His body jerks again, but this time he doesn’t thrash. He’s too weak. His head lolls. Blood runs from his wounds, blooms on the fabric of his clothing, drips to the floor in spreading puddles beneath the chair. The noises he makes no longer sound human. I’ve reduced him to an animal. The thought brings me nothing but satisfaction.

Am I evil?

Maybe.

I get close, right in his face. “Are. You. Sorry?”

He is. I can see it in his eyes even before he nods. He’s given up. He’s surrendered. I’ve won.

But I need to hear his admission.

“Say it!” I scream.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, the words barely audible.

Finally.

I lean close to his ear. “So you’re the one full of regret.”

I straighten. His eyes roll back in his head. He’s blacking out with the pain and blood loss. I raise the gun again and press it hard into his forehead. His lids flutter. Our gazes meet. He knows I’ve won. I focus on the moment. I want to remember every detail. Killing him must be deliberate, and he needs to know it’s coming.

Maintaining eye contact, I pull the trigger.

Compared to the other shots, this one seems quiet. I see the light extinguish from his eyes. His body goes limp instantly. Silence falls on the room. I can hear the old clock on the wall ticking as its second hand chugs along. The peace that fills me is almost blissful. But I can’t take the time to let it sink in.

I turn away from the bodies and walk out of the house, locking the back door before I pull it closed. I stand on the porch. Everything feels different. The night air is pleasantly cool and damp. The sky is clear, the stars bright pinpoints on its inky blackness.

I am reborn. I have a lifetime ahead of me. With his death, I can put the horrors of my past aside and move on.

Ironically, I feel no regret.

Only relief.

But even as I tell myself it is finally over, disagreement tugs at me. I peel the gloves from my hands. I’ve taken plenty of precautions. I’ve left no fingerprints. I contemplate leaving the murder weapon behind. It’s his, after all. But I put it in my pocket with the balled-up gloves. I take no chances.

Just in case this isn’t the end of my troubles, but the beginning.





CHAPTER TWO

Sheriff Bree Taggert turned onto the rutted lane and stopped her vehicle in front of an old farmhouse.

A neighbor had called for a wellness check. As Bree assessed the property through her windshield, she could see why. Weedy pastures and run-down structures painted a desolate landscape. The front-porch supports leaned to the right, as if a hundred years of relentless winds had battered them into submission. The land immediately around the house needed mowing, and the meadows beyond were waist high.

She reached for her radio to let dispatch know she was on scene. “Sheriff Taggert, code eleven.”

Bree climbed out of her vehicle. The house stood on a slight rise, giving her a decent view of the farm. Up close, the structures looked even more neglected. Someone was clearly trying—but mostly failing—to keep the place going. Peeling paint, missing shingles, and broken fence boards evidenced age, hard use, and poor maintenance. The house might have been white once upon a time but had been stripped to a bare, forlorn gray.

A large barn sat behind the house. The weather-beaten exterior still showed faint traces of deep red. The fencing around two large pastures had mostly collapsed. A smaller grass enclosure next to the barn had been recently repaired. In it, a dozen goats milled around the muddy area near the gate.

Bree didn’t know much about goats, but the animals seemed restless. Chickens roamed freely. She spotted a few cats slinking around the barn door.

Something was off here. She could feel it—an undeniable wrongness hovering in the air between the agitated goats and the pecking chickens. According to tax and motor vehicle records, Camilla Brown, age seventy, owned the property and resided here, but the goats, chickens, and cats were the only signs of life. The place had a vacant feel, much like the abandoned farm down the road from Bree’s.

Her gaze swept across the horizon. From an acreage standpoint, the farm was large, but the nearest neighbor was at least a half mile down the road. Did Ms. Brown live all alone out here? She was elderly. Was she no longer able to maintain the farm? Had she suffered an accident or medical emergency? Was she somewhere on the farm, hurt—or worse?