Page 57 of Cut Deeper

Anne held the sledgehammer over her head for a single second before she swung. Bone crunched—brain matter, blood, the Frenchman’s face splattered across my floor. It wasn’t enough for her. She swung three more times, until his skull was pulverised. Then she dropped onto him and smeared his remains across the floor, and then across her face. She didn’t stop until she was blood-red to the hairline.

Her eyes lifted to the camera.

White teeth beamed at me.

Another knock at my door.

I stuffed the phone in my pocket and went to consult with my client. She did most of the talking, because I couldn’t stop replaying everything I’d seen. And the question underneath it all.

What made Anne snap?

?? ?? ??

I closed the door behind me, listening to the click before I double-locked it and stepped into my deathly silent home. My shoes echoed against the polished marble as I crossed the foyer.

No food cooking in the kitchen. No sound from the living room. Just silence, and I didn’t like it.

She left you. You always knew this would happen.

“Anne,” I called, the name echoing back to me.

I jogged upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. The bedroom door stood open.

There she was—curled up in the middle of the bed. I set my bag by the door and peeled off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor. As I approached the bed, I paused to toe off my shoes, then pulled the covers up over her.

She lay with her back to me, a white towel wrapped beneath her arms. I settled in behind her and kissed her exposed shoulder. I didn’t say anything. I just held her close.

She didn’t leave. Whatever this was, we could work it out.

I don’t know how long we lay there, but the sun had begun to set when she finally spoke.

“I’m tired of this world,” she whispered, her voice low and flat.

There it was. What lay beneath the exterior. What had made her cut. The doubt that I wasn’t enough for her. Did she still want to die?

I held her tighter, hooking my leg over hers as if I could shield her from the torment.

“What can I do?” I murmured, rubbing her arm, listening to the slow, shallow rhythm of her breathing.

She didn’t speak. But after a few beats she turned and buried her face in my chest. I didn’t miss the red, puffy eyes, or the sorrow that had dulled them.

She spoke, and I listened.

My mind didn’t wander the way it usually did. Her soft words built an ugly picture—one I could comprehend, to a degree. Emotional and physical abuse were beasts I knew. What she described was another animal entirely.

It wasn’t until she showed me her phone that I understood the exhaustion. Understood why she would never bring a child into such a world. I held her until she dropped into a depleted sleep, and I never let go.

I kept reading. Article after article, until they blurred into one—the crime, the judgment, the absence of punishment.

I kissed the top of her head. She clung to my shirt, finding me in her sleep, and I offered what little comfort I could.

As my eyes closed, I considered my own self-serving activities.

I wanted a world with my Anne in it, and some adjustments would need to be made.

Adjustments we could both live with.

Chapter 31