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SEPTEMBER SLOWLY, CAUTIOUSLY opened the rear door of the house. She’d waited a long time for Shadow to finish his preliminary circuit of the house. His silence told her he’d found no overt threat. Combs would tell her to wait for the police, and she agreed in principle. But her heart screamed for her to run into the house, find Mom, and carry her away from the danger.
Why hadn’t Shadow returned? She looked out the door, checking both directions, but heard and saw no sign of the big dog.
She scanned the room. At first nothing seemed amiss. Her mother kept an immaculate house. The room surfaces in the kitchen shined. September crossed to the butcher block island. The decorative mortar and pestle had been moved from its usual place. Mom might use something on the island, but always, without fail, replaced them, wanting everything tidy and in the right location.
The mortar held an open but empty pill bottle of pain medication scripted to her sister April. Curiously, September picked up the heavy stone pestle serving as paperweight on an old delicate lace handkerchief next to a yellow pad of paper. Mom’s flowery script scrawled across the page, overlapping the lines with frantic loops and squiggles that screamed her alarm with a two-word repeated phrase:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!
“Mom? Mom!”
Outside, Shadow’s alarm bark erupted, escalated to frantic howls, and then fell silent. September whirled to run to her dog’s aid.
Mr. Bleak stood in the doorway. “Why can’t you stay dead?” He shut the door behind him.
Reflexively, September lobbed the stone pestle. It hit the side of his head with a satisfying thunk.
He grunted and took half a step back, then straightened. “This ends here.”
“Mom! Shadow?” September screamed, and whirled. She raced through the kitchen toward the front door.
Bleak thundered after her. He tackled her in Mom’s pristine living room.
September fell across the armchair, knocking it sideways to the floor. She scrabbled to crawl away, regain her feet.
But he fell on top of her. The breath burst from her lungs beneath his weight. Mr. Bleak straddled her, hands about September’s throat. “This time, it is very personal.” He squeezed.
She instinctively reached for his bare cat-bitten hands, each too swollen to fit inside gloves. She clawed at the constriction around her throat to no avail.
He continued to throttle her.
She had seconds before she lost consciousness. September fought panic. Remembered her self-defense class. She grabbed his left elbow with both hands, and pushed it up and sideways with all her strength. Nothing happened. He had too much control. So she quickly brought her left arm up on the inside of his right elbow and grabbed his shoulder. At the same time, she clutched his neck with her other hand, hugged him. And rolled.
The bridging move took him by surprise, but only momentarily. September struggled to regain her feet, gasping to catch her breath. She tripped twice on her way to the front door.
He came after her.
She yelled. Her voice made a choked broken-glass sound from his bruising grip. September grabbed a small lamp, one of the stained glass designs her brother made, and threw it at Mr. Bleak. He knocked it aside, hissing at the unexpected bruising weight that hit his wrist.
September reached for the front door handle.
Bleak casually stooped, grabbed up the entry rug, and yanked.
She flew sideways, arms outstretched to break her fall. September hit the floor, rolling. One hand closed on the brass lamp finial. Teeth bared, she held it like a dagger.
His kick drove the finial backwards, into her side. Pain blossomed. September fell into an abyss.
HE DIDN’T HAVE TIME for this. He’d checked and the rest of the family remained conveniently tied up at the hospital. His information confirmed the mother’s suicide made sense, and wouldn’t be questioned once her secrets came to light.
But Mr. Bleak couldn’t let September live, nor could he leave behind evidence of her death. That would prompt questions Mrs. Wong didn’t want raised. No, this time he’d ensure September Day disappeared for good. He’d take care of the damn dog, too. A little blood wouldn’t matter out by the hot tub. They’d just assume it came from the woman’s nosebleed. Funny, what heatstroke could do to a body.
Mr. Bleak tidied the room. He reset the furniture, and balanced the lamp back onto the table, surprised the heavy glass hadn’t broken. After he retraced his steps to the kitchen, he examined the pestle for evidence—it hadn’t broken his skin—and placed it back on top of Rose’s suicide note on the butcher block. He found plastic garbage bags he needed in one of the kitchen drawers. One would contain the mess of the dog. The other would take care of September.
He would do more than kill her. After what she’d put him through, she didn’t merit a quick clean death.
So he slid the garbage bag over September’s head and shoulders. Tape secured her arms at the elbow tight to her body beneath the plastic. For good measure, he taped her wrists together. She’d blackout in minutes, and would be dead in another five. Once loaded in the car for transport and disposal, he’d take care of the damn dog.
