Lorenzo: Chapter 35

I stare at Brad’s lifeless body. His cold, dead eyes stare back. Unblinking. Accusatory. Deep red blood pools around him. Spreading out across the tiled floor like raspberry sorbet left out in the sun. Its coppery tang fills my nose and throat. I can taste it when I swallow.

I pull my knees closer to my chest and curl my toes into my feet so the growing puddle of blood doesn’t touch me. It continues to reach for me, like his essence wants to drag me down to hell with him. Even in death he can’t leave me alone. A deep sobbing sound echoes in my ears, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s coming from me.

A sudden vibration in my hand jolts me. I tear my eyes away from Brad’s and glance down at my phone that’s covered in bloody fingerprints. An unknown number flashes on the screen. Oh yes, I called him, didn’t I?

The phone goes on ringing, and I blink at the screen until it stops. A second later, it starts again. The persistent vibrations travel through my palm and along my forearm. My thumb keeps slipping as I fumble to answer the call, but I finally manage it.

“Mia?” His deep soothing voice fills my ear. “Talk to me, sunshine.”

“I-I’m here.” I sob out the words as my gaze drifts back to Brad.

“Are you okay?”

I stare at the body of the man who made my life a living hell. A shudder runs down my spine. I can’t take my eyes off him for too long. What if he’s just messing with me? What if he isn’t really dead? “I st-stabbed him.”

“You did good, Mia. Are you still alone?”

“Y-yes.”

“Does anybody know he’s there with you? Did he come alone?”

Did Brad just wink at me? Did his eye move?

“Mia?” The soothing timbre of Lorenzo’s voice calms the tremors fighting for control of my body.

I take a gulp of air. “He came alone. I d-don’t think anyone knows he’s here.”

“Did he hurt you?”

I look down at my torn clothes and note the fingertip-shaped bruises blooming beneath the skin on the tops of my thighs. “N-not really.”

“I’m on my way, sunshine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What if he’s not really dead?” I whisper, scared that if Brad can hear me, he’ll choose this moment to strike. I’m no longer holding the knife in my hand; my only weapon is this cell phone.

“Is he moving? Breathing?”

“N-no.”

“Are his eyes open or closed?”

I shiver. “Open. He’s staring at me.”

“Have his eyes moved? Has he blinked at all?”

“I don’t … I don’t think so.”

“He’s dead, Mia.”

“He looks dead, but what if …?”

“Have you checked for a pulse?”

“N-no. I don’t want to touch him.”

“Mia, listen to me.” He speaks slowly and softly. “You need to check for a pulse.”

The thought of touching his body fills me with terror. “I c-can’t.”

“You can do anything, sunshine. You’re the toughest woman I know. Do you know where to check on his neck for a pulse?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go on, sunshine. I’m right here with you.”

Taking a deep breath, I creep forward, watching intently for any sign of movement. My fingers hover over the spot on Brad’s neck. “What if I touch him and it wakes him up?”

“He’s not sleeping or unconscious. If he was, his eyes would be closed. But if the man has no pulse, he’s most definitely dead. Check and then you can know for sure too.”

I nod. Logically, I know he’s right, but fear has its icy grip clamped around my heart. All rational thought and reason seem to have left me. I fumble with his collar, exposing the skin I need to touch, and press two fingers against his throat. He’s still warm, still feels alive. But his body remains motionless. Applying more pressure, I stare at Brad’s face and wait. Nothing.

“You okay, sunshine?” Lorenzo asks softly.

“Yeah.” I wait for a faint pulse to thrum against my fingertips. Still nothing.

“You feel anything?”

Relief rushes through me, and I close my eyes at last. “No. Nothing at all.”

“That’s my good girl.”

My heart finally begins to calm down. I lean back against the cupboard and hug my knees to my chest once more, feeling safe now that I know he’s gone but still unable to find the courage to get up and leave him here alone.

“I have to make a few more calls. Will you be okay while I’m on my way to you?”

“I-I’m fine,” I lie.

“I’ll be there soon. Call me back if you need anything at all. Don’t answer your phone unless it’s me calling. And don’t answer the door until I get there. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I whisper.

He hangs up and I press the phone to my chest. Right now it feels like my lifeline. My only link to the real world outside this nightmare in my kitchen. Brad goes on staring at me with his cold, dead eyes. It’s a look I’m used to from him.

A slideshow of images from earlier flicker through my mind, and goosebumps break out along my arms. Please hurry, Lorenzo.

Wrapping my hands around my mug of chamomile tea, I smile at the view from the window overlooking my little yard. A feeling of contentment settles over me. I love it here. It’s still dark out, but a string of fairy lights illuminates the cluster of exquisite rose bushes grown by the previous owner. They’ve started to bloom alongside the jasmine I planted a week after I moved here.

My phone lights up beside me, the flashing battery indicator reminding me that I forgot to charge it last night. Putting it in my pocket with a mental reminder to plug it in while I get showered and dressed for work, I open the back door and step outside. The gentle morning breeze dances over my skin, and the sweet scent of jasmine drifts through the air. My stomach growls, so I return to the kitchen, take a large knife from the drawer, and place it on the counter. I open the refrigerator, searching for the strawberries I bought yesterday. Darn it! I got home late and was so exhausted that I ate them for dinner. A banana it is, then.

I close the refrigerator door.

My heart stops.

He’s here. His face.

Right outside my window.

I scream.

He smiles.

My heart starts beating again. No, it gallops.

He’s closer to the back door than I am. I’ll never make it. I run for it anyway, desperate to close it before he can make his way inside. It’s like I’m running through molasses in wintertime. He’s inside before I can even reach the doorway. He closes the door behind him. The deadbolt clicking into place echoes around my small kitchen like a death knell.

I scramble backward and bump into the kitchen counter.

“Hey, honey, I’m home,” he sing-songs, like he just came home from a shift.

“B-Brad?” My blood freezes in my veins and my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.

He licks his lips, leering at me like I’m his last meal. There’s a crazed look in his eyes. “You really thought you could hide from me, Mia?”

“I-I—” My words are stolen by the thick knot of terror lodged in my windpipe.

He edges closer, his expression growing more crazed as he nears me. His face is unshaven, his appearance unkempt. A sour stench fills the space between us, making me gag. My chest aches from the pressure of my racing heart.

I’m going to die right here in this spot before he even puts a hand on me.

“Faking a panic attack again, are we?” he says with a cruel laugh, mocking me.

“P-please,” I beg, despite knowing the futility of it. He never showed me any mercy before, and now …

His face contorts with hatred. “Please?” He snarls. “You think I give a single fuck about you anymore, Mia?” He spits out my name like a curse. “Eight months I’ve been looking for you. Waiting for you to see sense and come back to me. You had your chance to beg me for forgiveness, but it’s long gone, honey.”

He takes another step closer, and my hands and legs tremble violently. Watching me, he gives a vicious laugh.

Fucking asshole.

I suck in air and lean against the counter for support, trying to regulate my breathing and calm my stampeding heart. Nothing I say will have any effect on him. Brad Mulcahy doesn’t have one decent bone in his entire body. Why the hell would I give this sack of elephant dung the satisfaction of seeing me cower in fear? Never again. This might be the end for me, but I won’t make it easy for him.

“Beg your forgiveness?” I find my voice, and while it’s little more than a croak, he falters. His nostrils flare as he glowers at me. “I should have left you the first time you hit me.” My voice grows stronger. “The first time you raped me. The first time you made me question my own sanity.”

“Ungrateful bitch,” he spits, cracking the back of his hand across my face. His signature move. My head snaps back and pain blooms on my cheekbone, but I stand tall and glare at him.

“You are a coward and a bully, Brad Mulcahy.”

He bares his teeth, like a rabid animal. “Did he tell you that?” His face contorts with disgust. “The guy you were fucking in Chicago?”

The reminder of him gives me a fresh shot of adrenaline. Even in the face of certain death, Lorenzo Moretti would stay strong until his last breath. “Lorenzo is a far better man than you will ever be, Brad.”

His body vibrates with rage. “Fucking whore.” He makes a grab for me, and I’m not fast enough to dodge him. Vicious hands tear at my clothes. I struggle against him. My shirt rips down the middle, exposing my breasts. That only seems to drive him into a deeper frenzy.

He rages at me. Calls me a slut and a whore while he tries to tear off the rest of my clothes. I scratch and claw at him, but he’s bigger and stronger and his determination to take what he wants rivals my resolve not to let him. Survival instinct kicks in, and I lash out, kicking him in his knee. He howls but remains undeterred. Slamming me back against the counter, he tugs at my pajama shorts, almost making me topple over as he wrenches them off my legs.

“I don’t want you, you fucking animal!” I screech, but he only laughs.

“Tough shit, honey. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget about ever having another man between your legs.” He wraps a hand around my throat, his grip brutal. Thick, ugly fingers probe the tops of my thighs, leaving bruises everywhere he touches. I need a weapon. Something. Anything. He brushes the edge of my panties and bile surges from my stomach, burning my esophagus as I’m forced to swallow it down.

Strawberries!

I reach behind me, scrabbling for the knife in the sink. My hand curls around the smooth handle, and I’m filled with a rush of adrenaline. Brad’s disgusting fingers slip into my panties, and I swing my left arm, plunging the blade into the column of his throat. His gray eyes widen; his grip loosens. Blood bubbles from his lips and he staggers back, reaching for the knife embedded in his neck. He pulls it free and blood gushes from his wound, spurting all over me as he lurches forward, grasping at my clothes.

This time he’s the one begging. His eyes plead for mercy, full of terror and the knowledge that he’s about to die. I wrench from his grip, and he stumbles back and crumples to the floor, choking on his own blood.

I gulp for air. What the hell have I done?

I killed a cop. Holy fuck! My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out. The red indicator flashes, reminding me that the battery is low. A hysterical laugh bubbles out, and it tumbles from my hands as I lift them to my lips. The battery symbol continues to blink at me from the floor, almost like it’s trying to tell me something …

Ten digits pop into my head. A phone number I memorized from the wrinkled piece of paper that I read more times than I could count. Sinking to the floor, I send up a prayer that he picks up, and I use my trembling, blood-soaked fingers to call Lorenzo.