Scarlet Angel (Mindf*ck #3)(7)

I return my gaze to my phone and carry it toward the couch. A normal girl wouldn’t notice a cell phone jammer—or even know what one was—so quickly after the traumatizing experience of killing a man.

I turn off the music, removing my iPod from the dock. Asshole.

I hate my things being touched by people. Now he’s gone and bled all over my floor too. It’ll take me forever to clean all that up.

I’d call him inconsiderate, but since I’m the one that sort of stabbed him, then I guess it’s my own fault. I should have let him run into the knife on the tile floor instead of the carpet.

Oh well. I can finally get that hardwood I’ve been considering. I usually don’t update my homes, but with Logan living somewhat close by, I’ve had more reasons to stay than go.

I wonder how long it’ll be before someone checks in on me. Or should I run and scream down the street? How does a normal person act after being attacked by a homicidal maniac and miraculously killing him by fluke?

Do they rock in a corner? Do they cry? I hope not. I can’t fake tears, and I don’t like rocking. Makes me nauseated.

Do I scream and pretend to be inconsolable or terrified? I don’t like screaming. Hurts my throat. And acting terrified will be hard to pull off, because…I can’t remember how to be afraid.

Obviously he wanted to rape me. I do remember how to feel after that. Numb. Broken. Suicidal. But that was much more than one man that brought me to that point.

It was much more than the rape that left me so broken.

So really, I guess I don’t know, which it doesn’t matter. He sure as hell never made it that far.

Do I act stunned or shocked? Do I show remorse even though he deserved to die? I’ll start laughing if I try to fake remorse for that sadistic piece of shit.

I may can pull off stunned or shocked. Maybe play it off like I haven’t been able to really wrap my head around the fact I just killed a guy?

Normal girls are hard to understand, because I can’t remember the last time I was normal. Normal girls spend too much time reacting to their actions. They take for granted the air they get to breathe, because they’ve never been deprived of those painless breaths.

Me? I’ve already walked through hell, so I’m desensitized to all else.

I decide to go with shocked. It’s the easiest to fake.

So, while I wait on someone to show up—and they will eventually when Logan realizes I’m unprotected—I practice my blank stare. I keep holding the knife, giving it a white-knuckle grip, certain a girl in shock would do just the same.

Yep.

Got this down.

And I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Sheesh.

Finally, hear the telltale whoops and blares of sirens, brakes squealing on my driveway. Jeez. I’m glad I didn’t need to be saved. An entry that loud would have gotten me killed immediately, giving the fucknut bleeding all over my floor time to escape.

Jackasses.

I am curious when they burst through the doors, using my peripheral to see them training their guns on the air in front of them. How do they know he’s here?

I proceed with my blank stare act, waiting.

“Holy shit,” someone says, but I remain in shock, staring ahead.

How long do I have to do this?

My eyes are burning from how wide I’m holding them open. “Plemmons is in the living room,” a loud voice booms.

I don’t move my head, but I see him kneel as another man keeps a gun pointed on the Boogeyman.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

The voices continue chirping the same word from all around my house. I remain a statue.

“Dead,” the guy kneeling says, then grabs the radio hooked to his shoulder. “Dispatch, Plemmons is dead. The house is clear.”

He clicks the radio, speaking into it again, repeating his words.

“What the hell?” he asks.

Apparently that jammer does more than just disable cell phone signals.

“I don’t know. Mine isn’t working either. Neither is my phone. Don’t disturb the scene. This is a fed case. Clear the house until they get here. They’re already chewing our asses for taking thirty minutes longer than we were supposed to. How was I supposed to know the guy isn’t just overly paranoid? They had us knee deep in an unmarked graveyard, all hands available.”

“Miss?” the guy prompts, coming closer, not responding to the sulking douchebag whilst I pretend to be a sad little girl in shock.

He carefully touches my wrist, and I jerk.

“Shhh,” he soothes, prying the knife from my hand and handing it back to another guy who wraps it and puts it in an evidence bag. “You’re safe, Ms. Myers.”

His voice is so gentle, and I have to keep a straight face to keep from smiling at him in appreciation for his genuine concern.

Something rattles from behind us, a loud thump thump thump, and I turn around without thinking as they draw their weapons, aiming it at the coat closet in the room.

My heart is in my ears as they jerk the doors open, and all the color drains from my face as Hadley struggles on the ground, likely thumping the door with her head.

Her muffled sounds reach my ears as my eyes land on the duct tape on her mouth.

I take it back. I remember now what it’s like to be afraid, because the fear is etching up my spine, rising steadily higher and higher. They’ll load me full of bullets before I can get away. There are at least fifteen cops in my house right now.