Page 15 of Cut Deeper

She knelt at the front of her cage, hands wrapped around the bars. That’s when I caught them—a faded mesh of criss-crosses across her wrists. She knew where my eyes had landed, becauseshe lowered her hands, folding them away as though she’d accidentally revealed something true.

Old scars. I moved closer. No fresh cuts. Her eyes were fixed on the space between us. I wanted to catalogue every one of them. Every line she’d ever delivered to herself.

She raised her head.

“What are you waiting for? Kill me.”

No emotion in those ice-blue eyes. No sadness, fear, or even weariness. The weariness always caught them in the end—days, weeks, months, they all lost the will to live eventually.

“Do you need me to show you how it’s done?” she taunted.

I scoffed and turned away, instructing my playlist to begin.

The Bach-Gounod Ave Maria filled the basement, instantly soothing. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything—but today, I was happy. I hummed along as I prepared the table.

Everything was ready. Scalpel, a variety of scissors, gauze, mixing bowl, kidney tray. On the far side, a curved needle already threaded with suture.

“No,” Eva whispered.

Massenet’s Thaïs began to play. Another beautiful piece.

I turned and rolled Anne’s cage into position—far enough to give her a clear sightline to Eva’s chair, close enough that nothing would be lost on her. Then I crossed back and unlocked Eva’s cage.

“No. No. No.”

She scrambled to the back, eyes wide. I waited.

“Take Anne,” she cried, glaring sideways at her.“Take her instead.”

I crouched, reached in, and gripped her hair. She grabbed for the cage door as I hauled her out—I yanked hard enough to feel strands give way—and dragged her to the chair.

Anne watched from her cage. Those ice-blue eyes were laser-focused on every movement.

Not horror. Not fear. Not even curiosity. What shone from Anne’s eyes was a manic ardour. She swallowed as though her mouth had gone dry.

You’re evil. No one could love you. Not even your mother.

The thought came—and left again before it could take hold.

I strapped Eva in. Her screams distorted the music, but I didn’t retaliate.

Anne was watching.

I carefully pulled on my gloves, studying Eva’s soon-to-be altered face. The strap across her forehead held her still—any movement during the incision would ruin the design I had in mind.

I probed both sides of her jaw, feeling the joints, trailing my fingers along the line I intended to follow. Once decided, I lifted the scalpel and cut from the corner of her lips to the point I’d marked.

Flesh split. Blood oozed. Eva screamed, and Gareth began to cry.

I moved to the other side and made the same incision. Not as clean—my left hand was never quite as precise—but who would notice?

Anne might.

I stepped back to admire the cuts.

“There,” I murmured.“You won’t talk as much now.”

She was in shock. Before she could react, I moved to her side and worked my hands into her mouth, prising her jaw open. Removing the elasticity of the surrounding skin first would make the next part considerably easier. I increased the pressure steadily. She moaned, eyes wide and streaming.