Well, then how about this, Olivia? Tune into what’s happening to you, will you? What do you think about lying six feet under, huh?

Rick Bentz won’t be able to save you.

And he’ll know what real mental anguish is.

I glare at the woman staring up at me. So smug. So self-satisfied. As if she really thinks she can see the future.

Oh, like, sure.

“No way,” I whisper to her. “No damned way.” But her curved lips get to me and I remember that somewhere in her past she had a twisted ability to see murders committed as they happened.

How will she feel about her own? I wonder.

The thought is thrilling, brings a zing into my veins, not so much for her pain and suffering but for Bentz’s.

He’ll be the one who will have to deal with the torment, the pure, soul-sick torture of knowing that, because of him, the woman he loves will be subjected to excruciating, mind-shattering fear and deep, abysmal pain.

But I can’t get ahead of myself.

Everything is falling into place, but my mission is far from over. Still undone.

There are those who need to be destroyed, those who have served their purpose by leaking information about Jennifer to Bentz, those who knew her well and now are of no further use. I take a deep breath.

To remind myself of my mission, to stay on target, I reach into my pocket and pull out my Pomeroy 2550, a sweet little multipurpose tool that disguises its sharp blades in an innocuous plastic shell. Designed to look like a pink manicure kit, the tool can become lethal with the flick of a tiny lever. It boasts a corkscrew, screwdriver, nail clipper, a pair of petite scissors, and a tiny little knife as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.

My favorite.

The razor-thin blade is perfect.

Grinning at this newfound ritual that solidifies my determination, I hum along to the refrain of “Losing My Religion” as I slowly draw the blade across my inner wrist.

A sharp sting.

I suck in my breath in a hiss, losing track of the words to the song. But it’s a bittersweet pain and I locate the melody again, catching up to the band.

With eager eyes, I watch the blood bloom. My blood rise against my skin.

Reverently, almost mesmerized by the image I’m creating, I drizzle the thick red drops onto the photograph of Olivia.

She smiles up at me through a nearly opaque sheen of red.

Unknowing.

Fearless.

I smear the blood over the plastic that protects her image and yet she grins.

Poor, dumb bitch.

“Don’t tell me you need another favor,” Montoya said when Bentz phoned him as he drove with the pack on the clogged L.A. freeway. He had the window cracked but closed it and cranked up the A/C.

“You’re off work anyway.”