She held the cleaver tight against her chest. The handle was well designed and fit comfortably in her hand, the blade long enough so that the point sat slightly under her chin. When she turned, Hannah was seated exactly as she had been in the lifetime before Susan had decided that murdering the woman was the only way out.
Over the years, the ones when Drew was sleeping, or Mark was working, and then when Drew was studying, she’d learned the art of moving quietly, of being virtually unseen, unnoticed. It had become part of who she was. It was good to use the few skills she had to get her out of the predicament she was in.
Hannah didn’t move as Susan glided across the floor and behind her. Nor did she move as her hair was gathered in one hand, and the knife was slid oh-so quietly across her throat. The blood was warm, thicker than Susan would have expected, and there was so much of it. It spurted forward over the table and dripped from the edges of it to the floor, it soaked into the shirt Hannah wore, flattening the fabric to her skin.
Blood dripped from the end of the knife when Susan held it up.
There was nothing pretty about the blade now.