Page 7 of A Spy is Born

His whole life.

A shudder shakes me, my stomach cramping on emptiness and fear.

My hand leads me along the edge of the couch. Archie’s barking starts up again as I reach the end of it.

Where is he?

I’m going to have to run, but I don’t know if my legs can hold me.

I turn and launch myself from the steady support of the couch, flying forward, ungainly and sloppy. My bare feet touch the cold marble of the hearth. I’m falling forward. My hands fly out, grasping the edge of the mantel.

It's cold and smooth, slippery against my palms—slick with sweat and fear. I grip the mantel, dragging myself along it.

The gold of the Oscar statues twinkles in the low light. Four stoic forms, all lined up—immune to the horror show playing out in front of them.

Fingers dig into my hair, grasping a chunk of it, and rip back my head. I move with the pain for a moment but then lurch forward, trying to twist away, gripping the mantel even harder. Jack grunts.

I grasp the closest Oscar. It’s cold and solid andheavy.

Jack's arm comes around my bare waist, the softness of his shirt in contrast with the roughness of his hold. He drags me back, and we fall together onto a couch, me on top. My legs are spread, his arm under my breasts, and hot breath on my neck. A swipe of his tongue against my flushed skin turns me wild with rage, with fear, with every instinct out there. They all flare, the perfect fuel for my flame.

"No!" I yell. And it comes out clear. Unmistakable.

Jack thrusts his hips up, the hard line of him rubbing against my bare ass, wriggling to get in. A mind of its own. A member apart.

I thrash, the statue in my hand landing against Jack’s shoulder, loosening his grip on my middle. Surging forward, I fly onto the coffee table, pushing big, heavy books off its polished glass surface onto the floor.

I thought that rug looked so soft when I came through here earlier—didn't know how much it could burn.

Weight lands on my back, pressing me into the table, and—oh my God! No, no, no—he has me down. He's trying to…I twist hard, bringing the statue up and around with all my strength. It connects with his temple, the sound a sickeningthunk. A disgusting cracking.I just broke something.

He falls away, limp. My heaving breath is the only sound in the room.

I scramble away, pulling myself up onto a nearby chair. Gray light filters in through the tall patio doors. Scanning the room, I see one of my shoes in the open doorway of the patio. Where are my clothes? They must be behind the couch.

Jack isn’t moving.

Is he dead?

I can’t look.I need to leave.The thought is sluggish, fighting through the loud rushing of blood in my ears and the hard, terrified gallop of my heart.

My eyes travel wildly over the couch in front of me, cushions askew, then to the mantel, where that one Oscar is missing, then down onto the coffee table. A sweaty imprint from my body mars the glass, big art books are open and crumpled on the carpeting below.

A shudder runs over me and my stomach flips, threatening to empty.

My eyes finally, slowly, fall onto Jack, a slumped, pants-less form on the floor. His legs and ass look so white. His pale blue shirt has gone gray in the darkness. Jack’s hair looks darker in this light…my eyes drop to my hand, to the statue still gripped there.

Blood. There is blood on Oscar's head. My fingers grip the statue’s ankles so tightly they hurt. Throbs of pain suddenly awaken all over me. There is a bite mark on my breast, a cut on my back, bruises all over me.

Tears blur my vision. I can't see again. A deep heave racks through me, and I double over, retching at my feet, the bile splattering my ankles, wrecking the carpet…well, the blood probably already did that.

What is happening?

I heave again. But there is nothing left, nothing left to release. I got it all out.

Struggling back onto the chair, I curl around the statue, my gaze drifting back to Jack’s slumped form. He's not moving.I should check on him.A thought passes by, at first like a drifting cloud, then suddenly insistent. Jack Axelrod is dead.

I killed him.

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