Page 91 of Riot Reunion
“They’re green,” I say confidently. “Bright jade green. Just like Wren’s.”
“Lying whore!” He charges for me, brandishing the knife, and just like that, any thoughts of me standing my ground and fighting go up in smoke. I’m so panicked, I run. Through the living room. Through the foyer. I grab hold of the banister rail, swinging myself around it and I go flying up the stairs.
I do not waste time looking back.
I can hear Fitz in pursuit, grunting, panting, his bare feet slapping each step, and that’s enough for me. My heart beats so fast, I can hardly differentiate between the beats. I fuckingmove. Two steps at a time. Three. I clear the first staircase and hurtle around the landing, heading for the second flight.
A bloody hand flashes through the banister railings, grabbing at my ankle. I scream, Fitz catching hold of me briefly, but I yank my leg free and bolt, racing forward again. The second flight of stairs yawns ahead of me.
Go, Elodie! Move!
I yell, urging myself on as I run. I can hear Fitz gaining. The grunting is getting louder, the thundering in the steps behind me getting closer.
“Fucking bitch!” he roars. “You’re dead. You’re fucking DEAD!”
Frantic, I wrench Wren’s door open when I reach it. There’s a heart-stopping moment where I turn and slam the door behind me, where I think I’ve got it locked, but then the door explodes off its hinges, and I am sent flying backward.
Gravity shifts. I fight to stay upright, but there’s nothing I can do to keep myself on my feet. I crash to the ground, sprawling out on the floorboards, every molecule in my body alive with terror as I flip over onto my back, desperate to see…
Fitz storms into the bedroom, a whirlwind of fury and hate. Naked, soaked in blood that doesn’t appear to be his, hair wild, mouth hanging slack in a rictus of rage, he falls upon me, knife outstretched.
This is it.
I’m going to fucking die.
I’m going to fucking—
A white-hot, burning pain ignites in my shoulder. The blade protrudes out of my body, just below my collarbone. Shock ripples through me like a pebble cast into a pond, gradually spreading outward from the point of impact. He did it. He…hestabbedme.
Grinning madly, Fitz twists the handle of the blade, and the pain that was slow in building suddenly ignites, tearing a scream from my throat.
“They’re yellow, bitch,” Fitz spits. “My eyes areYellow. Not green.”
34
PAX
This motherfucker had better bedead.
That’s the only excuse I will accept for this bullshit. Hammering on the front door even harder, I lay my fist against the wood, ready to punch a hole in the damn thing.
“Hey, man! What the hell’s wrong with you? It’s one o’clock in the morning. People are trying tosleep.” A guy stands in the driveway next door wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown. I definitely wokehimup; his hair is all over the place, and I can see the pillow lines on his cheek from here.
“ROBEEEEEERRRRT!” I shout. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”
“Dude. Are you high? He’s obviously not home!”
“Then where thefuckis he?” I round on Fluffy Robe Guy, beelining for him across the front lawn, my hands clenched to fists.
“Whoa there, buddy. Slow down. It’s Thanksgiving. He’s probably still cleaning up at the restaurant. He did a three-course special—”
The fuckingrestaurant. Of course. The brunch we had with Robert earlier feels like it took place five years ago. He did mention that he had to work later, though. I just momentarily forgot that he’d opened up an Italian place in town.
And now I have to drive a stolen fucking car across Mountain Lakes, right past the police station, because Wren fucked off with the goddamn Charger without even a by-your-leave. Elodie’s missing, fair enough, but tell a guy before you peel out with his car, for fuck’s sake!
No matter. The license plate of the ostentatious BMW I borrowed reads, ‘DRMARK.’ I have every intention of returning the vehicle before Dr. Mark finishes his shift and realizes that it’s gone. It takes me just three minutes to speed across town to the restaurant. Sure enough, when I pull up outside, the lights are still on inside, though the blinds are drawn. I try the door first, but it’s locked. Around the back, I have better luck with the delivery entrance. Letting myself in, I rush through the spotless kitchen into the main dining room, where I find Robert Witton bending a dark-haired woman over one of the tables, giving her a solid railing. His pants are bunched around his ankles, his shirt covering his ass (thankfuck), as he thrusts away like a champ.
I ring the bell on the hostess stand beside me, the bright chime interrupting him mid-pump, and Chase’s dad nearly shits himself.
