Page 6 of The Hand that Frays
“Neo,” I beg, fisting his dark hair in my hand as I feel orgasm tangling low in my belly.
“More,” he grinds out, tone pleading.
I scream through the climax, feeling revitalized afterward.
Centered.
He helps me off the table and wipes my blade clean on his pants, handing it back to me as he unbinds Ed and packs up our restraints.
“Any last things you want to do before we leave?” Neo asks, and I return to reality as I’d been thinking of my life had he not created me.
Would I still be in Crows Hollow, a broken and tired nurse? Would I be working overtime tonight and sipping an energy drink instead of orgasming over the dead body of a child molester?
One can never tell.
“Lyla?” Neo snaps his fingers. “Anything else we need to do?”
I nod, stepping toward the curtains and closing them so that any passerby can’t find Ed lying on the dining room table in the front window.
He has a meeting with a reporter for Channel 4 tomorrow. An entire film crew will find him spread out and gutted, the word guilty etched into his chest—thanks to Neo and his branding skills.
“That’s all,” I say, removing my gloves and tossing them in my bag for disposal.
“Then let’s find somewhere to sleep, stupid love. I’m exhausted.”
We sneak out the back and over two streets to where we parked, the thrill of killing gone from our systems as bone-deep exhaustion seeps through us in its place.
Motel Five wasthe only thing with vacancy anywhere close to Ed’s house, and Neo secured us a room with cash as I waited outside in the car, covered in blood.
Once we were inside, we cleaned up and crashed.
Hard.
The nightstand clock says it’s eleven a.m. when I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom to pee.
After I completed my morning routine, I used the coffee machine from our luggage to make two cups of coffee.
Like always, Neo takes his coffee into his morning shower, and I turn the television on to see the breaking news.
However, this morning, my thrill is overshadowed by a national breaking story. There’s no mention of Ed Johnson and the American Ripper slitting his throat in the night.
No.
The headlines on every channel are something I never expected to see.
Anne Hatt, a woman who was imprisoned around five years ago for the heinous crime of poisoning her children over the length of ten or more years, is being set free.
I remember this story from the news. It had the world gripped when they found her guilty. Everyone couldn’t understand how she could do the things she did to her children.
Her blonde hair whips in the wind as she ducks her head to avoid reporters on her way out of the prison in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
“Astounding,” the reporter says, and I turn the television up.
“If you’re just tuning in, let’s get you up to speed.” A man standing in front of the prison holds an umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other. “In a sick turn of events, the court overturned the guilty verdict of Anne Hatt. The once-convicted mother of four was found guilty, as you’ll remember, nearly six years ago for the maltreatment of her children. Two of those children have since come forward, saying they were coerced by law enforcement. The courts overturned the initial ruling because ofthese new accusations. However, this case could go back to court.”
Fuck. To drag those children through that hell again, when they’re grown and have families now, would be pure hell.
The feed breaks up, and the studio reporter returns to the screen. “Sorry, I think we’ve lost David. Our team is going to see if we can get him back on the line,” she says, her thick London accent coming through the television speakers louder than David’s.