Chapter 2

A brown hardcover notebook sat in the drawer of my nightstand. My fingers brushed over the smooth surface as I pulled it out. Some of the pages bore the imprint of bloodstained handprints—they were testament to nights I could never erase.

 Normally, I would journal about the murders before the curse left me. Maybe because I'd hurt a little less.

 But Lawrence's death was different.

 Even while the curse still infected my sanity, my heart cracked with every beat. It hurt to think that I was the one who had ripped his throat open with the neck of a broken bottle.

 Seated on the bed, I placed the book on my thighs and opened to a fresh page. I picked up a pen from the nightstand and wrote:

On the 5th of May, 2001—the day I killed Lawrence du Martel.

The moon was nearly full, its glow so bright it made 8 p.m. feel like dawn. I sat in the living room, listening to the silence of the night, when I heard Lawrence's car pull into the driveway.

He came, despite my warnings. Despite the promises I'd made him swear. But Lawrence was stubborn, and we were inseparable. I couldn't convince him to leave, no matter how hard I tried. Honestly, I didn't want him to leave.

He silenced my protests with a kiss, pulling me into his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he lifted me, his lips claiming mine with unrelenting fervor. Upstairs, we undressed one another with ease. Lawrence had a way of making even the simplest acts feel electric. He tossed his shirt to the floor, his muscled chest illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the window.

I smiled, letting my gown slip from my shoulders. He grinned back, brushing blonde curls from his face.

But the moment shattered. My head jerked back, eyes rolling white, and in seconds, the curse took hold.

I grabbed the empty wine bottle from the shelf. Lawrence's smile faltered, confusion dawning in his eyes. I smashed the bottle against the wall and I slit his throat with a savage swipe. His blood spilled onto my hands as I roughly dump him on the bed and pinned him down. His eyes burned into mine, wide with agony and surprise, silently asking, Why?

I didn't have an answer.

By my cursed hands, Lawrence du Martel had fallen. And now, this moment would haunt me for the rest of my cursed life.

With trembling hands, I closed my journal and placed it back in the drawer. Letting out a shaky sigh, I stood and walked to the window. The lightweight curtain fluttered in the evening breeze as I looked out over the city.

 Even at this hour, the world outside was alive. Lights shimmered in the distance, cars drove through the streets, and distant honking carried on the wind.

 The sight reminded me I was profoundly alone… Again.

 As the clock struck eight, I thought, by now, Lawrence would have been knocking on my door, holding a box of takeout and a cheeky grin. I hadn't realized how empty my cupboards were without him.

 Dinner was toast. Again.

 Afterward, I laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling as the burden of the last night pressed down on me.

 Upstairs, my room was still a mess—clothes darted across the floor, broken glass, bloodstains on the sheets and floor.

 I'd buried his body, disposed of the murder weapon, but I hadn't touched the rest. Walking into my room seemed like I was walking into hell to get tortured.

 With reluctant resolve, I climbed the stairs.

 The stench of sweat and alcohol hit me as I stepped inside.

 I held my hands over my mouth and sobbed quietly. Then I pulled the sheets from the bed and gathered the scattered clothes. Mine went into the laundry basket. His did not.

 In the rear of my house, beneath the faint light of the moon, I dumped the bloodstained bundle pouring gasoline over the pile.

 With a flick of the match, I tossed it to the clothes, and the fire roared to life, thick black smoke curling into the night sky. I watched the flames consume the fabric like a witch at her sacrificial altar. The heat scorched my skin, but I stood there until all that remained of the pile was ash.

 Back inside, I scrubbed the room clean—sweeping away broken pieces of glass, dressing the bed with fresh sheets, and tucking everything neatly into place.

 I wanted to think last night had never happened, but the ache in my chest told me otherwise.

 * * *

It was nearly an hour's drive to the store, and my arse ached against the seat, despite the soft upholstery. The quietness of the road, the heat of the sun against the roof, and the sound of the engine made the journey feel longer than it was.

 Stuart stood behind the counter when I walked in, his face lighting up as soon as he saw me. A man of nearly fifty—short and bald. His smile had a way of creeping me out.

 His nostrils flared with every breath, like he consumed oxygen meant for two.

 "Josette, it's been a while. How are you?"

 "Still breathing. You?"

 "I'm well," he nodded.

 I grabbed a cart, steering it toward the shelves. The store wasn't large—a rundown corner shop on the outskirts of the city—but over the years; it had everything I needed.

 Quarter of an hour later, I pushed a full cart to the counter where Stuart waited, his eyes darting between me and the items.

 As he tallied the total, I pulled a bundle of cash from my pocket and slammed half of it onto the desk.

 "Big spender today," he joked, grinning as he took the money. "You've got housemates?"

 I gave him a long, cold look, then lowered my sunglasses slightly. "Thanks," I said flatly before heading for the door.

 Outside, the sun burned down on the streets. My shades dulled the glare, but the heat still scorched my skin as I loaded the car and drove home.

The keys landed in the bowl that sat on a table by the front door. I shrugged off my jacket, draping it on the nail nearby, and headed straight to the kitchen.

 A sandwich and a steaming mug of tea were my breakfast. I felt myself beginning to breathe well again.

 I changed into a towel, which I let drop at the bathroom door, and stepped into the shower. The water hit my skin, washing away dirt, and the faint traces of blood stuck under my nails.

 By the time I returned to my living room, dressed in jeans and a chiffon shirt, the sun was down already.

 I made a bowl of cereal, sitting at the kitchen table as I stared out the window while scooping cereal into my mouth. The view was always the same—trees swaying lazily, birds flitting between branches, and the occasional stray animal darting through the underbrush.

 It was at that moment that I realized this was my life. There's no getting away from it. I'm stuck being miserable.

 But tonight, something else caught my attention. A young man sprinted past, glancing over his shoulder. Four others followed closely behind, wearing black leather jackets and pants.

 I frowned, the spoon hovering mid-air.

 "Not your problem, Josette," I muttered, focusing back on my cereal.

 My gaze drifted to Lawrence's ring on my finger. For once, I thought, I could do something good.

 I could save a life.

 At least I owed it to Lawrence and to the people I'd murdered.

 I grabbed my keys and drove out of my yard. I sped down the road, my eyes darting to the woods on either side. The street ahead was empty, but I kept driving, looking for any sign of movement.

 A rustle to my left caught my attention. Pressing a foot against the brakes, I yanked open the glove compartment, grabbing the dagger I always kept there. I leapt out and sprinted toward the sound, trying to move as quietly as possible.

 My heart pounded in my chest as I searched for the young man.

 The shadows between the trees swallowed what little light remained. I scanned the area, my eyes darting through the trees for any sign of him.

 A twig snapped somewhere ahead. I staggered backwards, gripping the rough bark of a nearby tree for balance.

 I tightened my grip on the dagger as a figure emerged. I thrust the blade forward, stopping just as the person threw up their hands in surrender. "Easy!" he exclaimed.

 Letting out a slow sigh, I lowered the dagger. "Come with me."

 "Who are you?" he asked, his eyes shifting to the blade in my hand.

 I simply gave him a hard stare. After a moment, he shrugged, hesitated, then started walking in my direction.

 "That's him over there!" a hoarse voice came from behind us. From behind another tree, a man revealed himself. I didn't turn to look, but in my periphery, I glimpsed a brawny man.

 "Run," I said, already taking to my heels.

 The young man didn't need to be told twice. He kept pace with me as we ran through the trees. We busted out of the woods and I rushed into the car. I flung the door open and yelled, "Get in!"

 He hesitated for a second, glancing over his shoulder.

 "Now!"

 He jumped in, slamming the door after he had settled inside. The tires crunched on gravels as we sped away. In the passenger seat, he slumped back. His chest heaved. He turned to peer out the rear window.

 "Uh… who are you?" he asked after a long silence.

 I didn't answer, instead; I focused on the road, swallowing hard. The car's headlights carved a path through the early darkness until I pulled into my garage.

 I stepped out, and he followed, keeping a one meter distance between us as I unlocked the front door.

 "You can crash here tonight," I said, curtly. "But you're gone by morning."

 "Not until I know who you are. For all I know, you could be worse than them." He countered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

 I turned to face him, letting a cold gaze rake over him. "Suit yourself," I said with a shrug, and stepped inside.

 I heard him mutter something under his breath and follow me in.

 "You want a drink?" I asked, heading to the kitchen.

 He nodded, his posture still stiff as he sat at the table. "And I could use something to eat."

 "Oh, so you can eat at a stranger's house?" I teased, pulling open the fridge. "How unlikely."

 He shifted in his seat.

 I took out a can of soda and set it in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing.

 I opened the cabinet and brought out a pan, a bottle of oil, eggs, and some leftover vegetables. As I busied myself chopping carrots and peppers, I felt his gaze boring into me, watching my every move.

 "Who are you?" he asked again, softer this time. "Why are you helping me?"

 "Offering help doesn't always need a reason." I replied, not looking up.

 He shot to his feet so suddenly his chair clattered to the floor. "You work for the predator, don't you?!"

 I froze, staring at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

 His wild eyes darted around the kitchen as if searching for threats. Before I could process his sudden paranoia, he grabbed the ceramic jug from the table, raising it like a weapon. "Stay back!" he shouted.