Chapter 2

I hit Brian twelve times. I kept track of every single one.

By the fifth hit, he started begging. His voice cracked, mumbling over and over, "Stop. Please, stop."

By the eighth hit, he was silent. The pain had stolen his voice. His eyes rolled back, spittle foaming at his lips, his whole body twitching as he curled up in the corner.

At the twelfth hit, I stopped.

I didn't stop out of pity. It was enough. One more hit and I could've busted an artery, blood everywhere.

That wouldn't be intentional assault anymore. That would be murder, an entirely different crime. The punishment would be on a whole different level. I'd already calculated the consequences.

Laura must've rushed over at some point, grabbing my arm, her nails digging into my forearm, leaving four bloody scratches.

"You're crazy, Alex. You'll go to jail!" she shouted.

I shook her off and glanced down at Brian.

He was slumped in the corner, shaking, his legs twisted at angles no human leg should ever bend, blood pooling beneath him, spreading wider and wider, the color darkening from bright red to a deep, ugly crimson.

He was still breathing, letting out shallow, rapid gasps.

He didn't die. I couldn't let him die. If he died, this wouldn't just be assault anymore.

I leaned the iron bar against the wall and pulled my phone out of my pocket.

The recording was still running. Good.

I stopped the recording, saved it, and sent a copy to David.

Then I called the police.

After three rings, a voice answered, "Bridgeview Police Department."

"Hello," I said, my voice steady, almost unfamiliar to myself. "The address is 1804 Maple Gardens, Building B. Someone's hurt. We need an ambulance and the police."

The one on the other end asked, "Are you the one reporting this, or—"

"I'm the suspect," I said.

There was a two-second silence on the other end, probably processing what I'd said.

"He's losing a lot of blood. Please, get the ambulance here fast," I said, glancing at the blood still spreading across the floor. "Don't let him die. If he dies, it'll cost me."

Then I hung up.

Laura slumped to the floor. She'd finally stopped screaming, just staring at me in shock.

Her lips were drained of color, her eyes filled with fear, confusion, and something else. It was something I'd never seen in her before, something I couldn't even name.

Maybe this was the first time she actually saw who I was.

While waiting for the cops to show up, I did two things.

First, I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tried to stop Brian's bleeding.

He was hurting so bad he nearly passed out, his lips were turning grayish-purple, and he was shaking all over.

I crouched down in front of him, wrapped the towel around his knee, and tied it tight. My hands were steadier than I thought they'd be.

Three days ago, I'd watched a first-aid video about stopping bleeding. I remembered every step: press down, lift the injured leg, keep the joint still.

Second, I lined up those brown pointed-toe shoes.

They'd been kicked halfway under the bed. I bent down, pulled them out, and set them side by side at the foot of the bed, toes pointing out.

Laura stared at me, her lips moved, but no sound came out. Big tears fell in utter silence onto her bare thighs.

She wanted to say something, but I didn't give her the chance.

The doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

Two cops stood outside, hands hovering over their belts, bodies leaning forward, clearly on edge.

The porch light lit up their faces. One was young, the other was middle-aged.

I laced my fingers together and raised my hands above my head.

"I'm Alex Rivers. I did it. The iron bar's by the bedroom wall," I said. "There's a full recording on my phone. I'm not going anywhere."

The younger cop froze for a couple of seconds, then shot his partner a look.

He probably hadn't seen a suspect this cooperative in his entire career.

As I was leaving, I turned back for one last look.

Laura stood in the entryway, wrapped in a blanket, barefoot.

Her hair was a mess, makeup smeared. She looked like a total wreck.

Once, I thought she was the love of my life.

But now, when I was looking at her face, my stomach felt hollow. Nothing stirred inside me at all.

She opened her mouth, but I didn't bother to listen.

I turned and stepped into the elevator.

The feel of the iron bar lingered in my palm. My skin was scraped and sticky, blood smeared everywhere. There was no way to tell if it was Brian's or mine.

I looked up and saw my reflection in the elevator mirror.

I looked calm. There was even a slight curve at the corner of my mouth. It was not a smile, just that loose feeling I got after finally squaring up, nothing left hanging.

I would pay a million dollars for Brian's letter of forgiveness.

I would spend three years behind bars, and he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Worth it. Really.