Page 73 of Make You Mine

“You want to know something? My sister was like you. She was so weak and undeserving. She used to cry on my shoulder about the other woman Gareth was seeing. Silly girl had no idea that just hours later, it was me he was fucking in the backseat of his car. Right after I tucked little George in for bed. I babysat for them too, you know. Cooked and cleaned and took care of everything. I showed him how much better I was than her.”

The words hit me like cold water, dousing what’s left of my energy with horror. She’s more than just unstable; she’s rotten from the inside out. Every lie she told us, every smile, every moment she stood in my kitchen… it was all part of some sick, twisted performance.

My vision wavers. My hands are sticky with blood. I lean my head back against the wall and try to focus on the sound of Emmett’s soft whimpering. He’s trying to wiggle free from her arms.

She grits her teeth and unceremoniously drops him into the highchair. The clang of plastic against tile echoes through the kitchen.

“Ungrateful little brat,” she snaps. “Just like the rest of you.”

Emmett’s lip quivers as he starts to cry again.

My body, weak and racked with pain, wants so badly to move, to grab the knife or reach for my son or dosomething,but I can’t.

I’ve lost so much blood and can feel my blood sugar’s low. I hadn’t even recovered from yesterday’s collapse, and now here I am, suffering from more injuries.

Chelsea paces the kitchen, sparing me an occasional glance. Her lips curve into a smile so smug and satisfied it makes my skin crawl.

“You know, I discovered you and Declan a while ago. Declan works for the same company that cost Gareth his job. Isn’t that just poetic?” she asks, hardly pausing long enough for an answer. “Imagine my surprise when I came across such a handsome, strapping Irishman on the company website. Then I saw he’d be heading up the U.K. division, coming here, tomyvillage. But of course… he was married. And his wife was beautiful. An author.”

She pauses by the kitchen sink, hands resting lightly on the counter as she tilts her head toward me, eyes gleaming.

“I read every word you wrote. Blog posts, books, articles—everything. You could say I became your biggest fan. I admired you like I admired my sister once. She seemed so perfect too. That is, until the layers were peeled back and I realized she was undeserving. She was a fraud and I was better than she was. You were given everything that should’ve been handed tome.”

There’s no hint of irony in her voice and no self-awareness to be found. Just that bone-deep conviction that everything she’s done—all the stalking, the sabotage, the murder—is justified.

My stomach twinges in more intense, throbbing pain. I wince as more blood wets my blouse and the walls start to feel like they’ve stretched out.

I try to breathe, but it rattles out of me as a pained grunt. I’ve closed my eyes without even realizing I have. When I open them, I find her gaze already on me.

“Are you alright?” she asks sweetly, bending down. “I know what you need. Some insulin.”

“No… don’t…” My voice gives out, barely more than air. I push up from the wall, swaying unsteadily as I try to get my feet under me.

But Chelsea has already strode to the refrigerator and grabbed an insulin pen she’s likely tampered with.

She shoves me hard, sending me sprawling back against the floor with a grunt of pain. The world spins. My hands scrabble against the tiles, searching for something hold onto.

“This is how it was always going to end,” she says, matter-of-factly, as she crouches beside me. “You should be grateful, really. It’ll be quick.”

Then I see the syringe. She’s already uncapped it.

“No… please…” I twist away, trying to roll out of reach, but she pushes up my blood-soaked shirt and jams the needle into me.

My heart stutters at once, cold dread filling me at what’s about to happen.

Chelsea leans in close, brushing curls from my clammy forehead like a mother comforting a child. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it? It’ll be over very soon.”

Chelsea’s correct that the end is coming soon.

Within minutes, the compromised insulin hits me like a freight train, slamming into my bloodstream with brutal inefficiency. The pounding in my head starts, then there’s the dizzying sensation of the floor tilting beneath me, as though the house itself is rotating. My heart thuds erratically in my chest, too fast and too slow all at once, and my vision clouds like I’ve been dropped underwater.

Chelsea watches on with a kind of sick, gleeful satisfaction.

She kneels beside me. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Declan. And the children. I’ll love them better than you ever could.”

It’s the last thing I hear before my body seizes up, spasming once, then twice, before everything simply… lets go. My muscles slacken. My arms fall limp at my sides. My eyes flutter shut. I stop breathing.

Or at least, I make it look that way.

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