It is perhaps the most honest confession I have ever heard from him.

“Anyway, Eli, there’s literally no way you’re my kid. Thank God.”

“That’s enough, Christian.” I can’t stand here and watch him break my son’s heart. It’s enough that he’s always broken mine.

There must be enough warning in my voice to stop him, because Christian flicks a glance at me. His lips press together in a thin grimace. He is so handsome, but the harsh overhead light is not flattering. Or maybe it’s that I can see him with clear eyes for the first time. He frowns at whatever my face is showing him and turns back toward Eli.

“I promise not to tell anyone else. How about that? So long as you and your mom help me out.” Christian holds out his hands, fingers spread. Trying to charm.

Failing.

“I don’t want to sell the pills for you,” Eli says.

Christian’s amiable expression sours. “Tough shit, kid. You’re going to help me, or I’m going to tell the police the truth, just like you told me. Could be enough to cast doubt on Daddy Dearest’s crimes, you know what I mean? If he’s telling the truth about not killing and burying that kid, he might be telling the truth about not doing any of the others—”

“No! No, you can’t! He can’t get out, not ever!”

It’s clear Christian is not expecting Eli to hit him again. This time, the blow rocks him back a full step. Both his hands go up to block the flurry of Eli’s punches. My son screams, a high, hoarse sound that hurts my ears. There are words in it, but I can’t make them out. I can only hear the fear in them, and the fury.

Christian grabs one of his arms. Holds it. Bends back Eli’s thumb while my son cries out in pain. Christian doesn’t shout, he mutters a stream of low, hard invectives, and finally says out loud, “Cut it out, you fucking little psycho.”

They fall away from each other. Eli cradles his hand against his body. His eyes are bright. Chest, heaving. Crimson spots paint his cheeks, and his hair is sweaty, stuck to his forehead.

“Both of you fuckos listen to me,” Christian begins, but I don’t let him finish.

I’ve had enough of listening to men who think they know what’s best for me.

I stab him in the chest.

CHAPTER
40

THE KNIFE FROM the dish drainer slices through Christian’s shirt and into his skin, no problem, but it takes a bit of a shove to get it in all the way to the hilt. I put my weight into it. His mouth opens, gaping like a fish’s. When he starts falling, I step out of the way. He hits the kitchen floor with a horrible crunch that could be his nose breaking or the knife punching through his entire body.

There’s blood, a lot of it. It pools on the floor. I stand over him, watching to see if he tries to get up.