Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
But this? This ravenous butchery?
A noise from outside snaps me back to the present—a car passing on the road below. Reality crashes down on me. I’m standing in a murdered man’s study, covered in his blood, with no memory of killing him.
And not just killing him—mauling him.
Like an animal.
I have to clean this up. Have to think.
My gun is still in its holster, unused. The murder weapon—if there was one—is nowhere to be seen. Did I use a knife? My bare hands? I look down at them, trembling and caked with drying blood. They don’t seem capable of tearing a man’s throat open.
Yet here we are.
I force myself to think, to push aside the horror and shock. Marco worked for Mickey Cohen. His absence will be noticed quickly. I need to make it look like he disappeared, left town, anything but this slaughterhouse.
First, I need to dispose of the body.
Fighting waves of nausea, I search the house until I find a tarp in a utility room. I spread it on the floor next to Marco’s remains, then, steeling myself, roll his body onto it. The weight of him, the limpness, the still-warm touch of his skin—it all feels surreal, like something from my nightmares.
I’ve killed men in the war but I’ve never had to do this, I think as I wrap the tarp around him, securing it with rope from the same utility room.
Next, I have to clean. There’s too much blood to remove completely, but I scrub the worst of it with towels from the bathroom, stuffing them into a garbage bag. The splatter patterns on the walls get a quick once-over with a wet rag. I pray nobody looks too closely at this house anytime soon.
I change into clothes I find in Marco’s closet—they’re a bit small, but cleaner than my blood-soaked suit. My own clothes go into the garbage bag with the towels.
By the time I carry Marco’s body to my car, stowing it in the trunk, dawn is approaching. I need to move quickly now. I drive north, toward the isolated canyons where the city gives way to wilderness on Mulholland. My mind races with the implications of what I’ve done.
I’ve killed a man. Not in self-defense, not in war, but in some kind of blackout rage I can’t even remember.
And not just killed—mutilated, torn apart like a wild animal might.
What’s happening to me?
And what will I tell Lena?
The thought of her brings a fresh wave of guilt and confusion. How can I face her after this? How can I admit that I followed her abuser and somehow ended up covered in his blood with no memory of what happened? She’ll think I’m insane.
Or worse, she’ll understand exactly why I did it.
Because I wanted to protect her. Because something about her pulls at me in ways I can’t explain. Because when Marco threatened her, something inside me broke loose—something dark and hungry that I never knew existed.
I find a remote spot off the drive, deep in the brush where hikers rarely venture. The soil is rocky, hard to dig, but I manage to create a shallow grave using a shovel from my trunk. As I lower Marco’s body into the earth, my hands shake uncontrollably.
This isn’t me.
This can’t be me.
But it is.
The sky lightens as I finish covering the grave with rocks and brush. By the time I’m done, my clothes—Marco’s clothes—are soaked with sweat despite the January chill. I drive to the reservoir, throwing the garbage bag of bloody towels and my clothes into the deepest part I can find.
Back in my car, I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Same face. Same dark hair, same blue eyes. But there’s something different now, something haunted in the shadows beneath my eyes.
Something hungry.
What am I going to do?
Go to the police? Confess to a murder I can’t remember committing? They’ll lock me away in an asylum, and the killer who butchered Elizabeth Short and Sylvia Winters will remain free.
Tell Lena? She’d be horrified.
Or relieved…
No. I need to keep this to myself, at least until I understand what’s happening to me. These blackouts, the missing time, the violence I can’t remember—it’s all connected somehow. To the case, to Elizabeth Short, to Lena.
I drive back to my apartment as the city comes to life around me, feeling like a ghost among the living. In my bathroom, I scrub my skin raw, watching Marco’s blood swirl down the drain. But no matter how much I wash, I can’t rid myself of the sensation of being stained, marked by what I’ve done.
As I dress in clean clothes, my mind settles on one certainty: I can’t see Lena again. Not until I know what’s wrong with me.
Not until I can be sure I won’t hurt her the way I hurt Marco.