44

Violet Miller and How She Became a Murderer

A wide, dark building formed around her—wood floors, a deep green carpet, many unlit candles. Violet’s hands were wet.

She looked down. Sickness pooled into her stomach.

Blood. So much blood.

She tore backward, staring with wide eyes at the dagger she’d thrusted into the body of the person before her. The guy was on his knees, battling to breathe. He pulled the blade out of his stomach and dropped it on the floor. Dark branch-like veins spread over his body from the wound. He tried to hold himself up on his palms.

But he looked up. He looked at her.

“It’s all right, Violet,” he said quietly. “I know he made you do it.”

They were the only words he said before he dropped to the floor. And then he didn’t move.

Violet’s chest pounded. She looked down at her shaking, blood-soaked hands where the liquid was cooling and becoming sticky.

The hollow building was silent. No lights were lit, nothing but faint moonlight showed the silhouette of the body on the floor.

Violet took a cautious step toward him. She knelt and brought her wrist above his mouth to see if he was breathing. She felt nothing. So, she turned her ear toward his chest to listen.

Still, nothing.

She came back up slowly as it sank in what she’d just done.

This guy was gone.