Anna thought of how the hammer actually belonged to Miss Myrtle, who’d said she could keep it as long as she needed it. She’d liked the feel of the smooth wood in her hand when she pounded nails into the walls of the warehouse. She’d liked the solid head of it.

At midnight, though, she’d liked the claw end.

“What happened?” Jesse lowered his hand from his mouth, his voice a husky whisper.

Anna couldn’t speak. It would have taken effort she didn’t have.

Jesse walked toward her. He pried the journal from her fingers where she held it on her bare thighs and read what she’d written earlier that morning when she was sick to her stomach. So, so sick. She didn’t even remember what words she’d used.

“Oh, shit, Anna,” Jesse said. He stood above her, reading. It was the first time she’d heard him swear. The first time he’d said her name without “Miss” in front of it.

She started to cry. Again. She’d thought she was out of tears.

Jesse made her stand up. She started to fall, but he caught her. He helped her put on her underwear. Her pants. She felt no modesty. She didn’t care. Then he helped her walk around the other side of the cot so she wouldn’t step through the blood. So much of it! It had soaked into the concrete floor. Already dark, ruby red for all time. She thought she would get sick again, but the feeling passed. Jesse had her sit in the chair by his easel.

“Are you all right?” he asked, though it would be clear to anyone that she was not all right. Not in the least. She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t need to explain what had happened. He’d read it all. She watched him look around the room—the broken cot, the bloodstained hammer, the red concrete, Martin’s skull split open like a bloody egg.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

How? she wanted to ask, but the effort it would take to produce that word was more than she could summon.

She turned her gaze away from Martin. She wouldn’t look at him again. Did she strike him more than once? She thought she had. Once had been enough to kill him. She hit him more than once, though. Once, twice. Maybe three times. She couldn’t remember. She’d used all her might, but it hadn’t felt like enough for her. Was he truly going to kill her? She didn’t know. He’d been turned away from her when she rose in a fury from the cot, grabbed the hammer, and struck him down with all her might. Strength she hadn’t known she had. A side of herself she hadn’t known existed.

She would tell the police he was going to kill her.