I would have let them out. Anna and Ella.
When I stopped the car and told Anna to get out, I really meant it. Not just because I could have gone—disappeared somewhere too far to be found—but because I never wanted either of them to get hurt.
Now it’s too late. I’ll have to keep them. As insurance. Collateral.
If only I’d gotten rid of your body on my own, this wouldn’t have happened. But I couldn’t.
I kneeled on the floor, your blood seeping into my jeans. I was feeling for a pulse—looking for the rise and fall of your chest—even though the bubble of blood between your lips told me everything I needed to know. There was no coming back from this. For either of us.
I couldn’t have told you whether I was crying for you or for me. Maybe it was for both of us. All I know is I sobered up fast. I put my arms on either side of you, tried to heave you into a sitting position, but my hands were slick with blood, and you slipped from my grasp and smashed once more against the tiles.
I screamed. Rolled you over and saw the tissue through the crack in your skull. Vomited once. Twice.
And it was then, when I was sitting there covered in your blood and crying in fear of what they’d do to me, that the door opened.