Page 68 of Damaged Beast
Fuck, this is going wrong. I kick his phone sideways. Fortunately, his blood didn’t get on me, though it’s painting the plaster. I stare at the corpse in horror.
There’s no way to hide this.
They’ll notice he’s gone, and when they do, they’ll know it was me.
I break down my gun. I shove the pieces back into the hidden places in my clothes. The barrel is warm against my side. I have to hide the body, at least until there’s some reasonable alibi. Frankie’s a scumbag. I’m sure plenty of people in this house want him dead.
“Prime? Are you up here? I thought I heard?—“
I whirl as Deanna comes into the room.
She freezes. Her face is trapped in surprise. Her eyes move from the corpse at my feet to me and back again. Frankie’s skull is a mangled mess. Her mouth opens.
I rush her. She staggers back but I catch her and jam a hand over her lips before she can cry out. I hold her tight, pressing against the wall and listening. “Don’t make any noise. Don’t panic. It’s going to be okay.”
Tears well in her eyes. She keeps looking at Frankie’s body. She tries to speak, but my hand’s muffling her words.
“Quietly,” I warn, moving my palm away.
“He’s dead,” she groans. “Prime?—“
I lean my forehead against hers. “There’s no time for what happened. I have to hide him. Are you with me?”
“Prime—“
“Damn it, Deanna. Are you with me or not?”
She whimpers but nods. “I’m with you.”
“Keep watch. If anyone comes up here, tell me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill them all if I have to?”
She moans, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “I don’t… I don’t know…”
“It’s going to be okay, but you have to pull it together. Keep watch for me. Can you do that?”
She’s melting down, but I can’t let her fall apart. She nods like it’s painful.
“How did you get up here?”
“Told the guards I needed the bathroom. For feminine reasons. Men always go stupid for period stuff.”
I squeeze her hips. “Good girl. Get moving.”
Deanna slips into the hallway. I don’t have time to worry about her right now. We’ll deal with the fallout later.
I hurry to Frankie’s body. I drag him to the closet and shove him inside. It’s a tough fit, but I contort his corpse until he’s twisted into the corner. There’s a big trail of blood. I clean it with the bedspread, wiping down the walls, doing my best to mop it up. I toss the blankets in with him and step back to survey the results.
What a fucking mess.
The next person to come into this room is going to instantly know something bad happened. But if I’m very, very lucky, that won’t be for a while.
God damn it. What the fuck was I thinking? Did I really imagine rushing down there with a single bullet? The second I saw Fontana, it’s like all rational thought drained from my head, and the desire to kill him was all I could think about.
Bleed him. Burn him. Hurt him for hurting me.
