Hot blood soaked Callie’s hand as she twisted the blade in deeper. The vibration of the serrated teeth scratching against bone went up her arm. Callie’s mouth was so close to Sidney’s that their lips brushed. She told the woman, “You should’ve let me finish.”
The knife came out with a sucking sound.
Sidney stumbled forward. The gun clattered to the ground. Blood spattered against the smooth concrete. Her feet got caught up at the ankles. She fell in slow motion, body straight, hands holding her guts inside. There was a sickening crunch as her face met the shards of broken glass. Bright red blood poured around her torso like a snow angel’s wings.
Callie looked into the empty street. No one was watching. Sidney’s body had fallen mostly inside the darkness of the carport. Anyone who got curious would have to walk up the driveway to see her.
The knife went back into Callie’s jacket pocket. She scooped up the gun as she walked deeper into the carport. Her thumb toggled off the safety. She located the kitchen door by memory. Her eyes did not adjust until she’d lifted her leg and climbed through the opening Leigh had made two nights ago.
The scent of meth still permeated the air, but there was a smoky undertone she couldn’t place. Callie was suddenly glad that Leigh had dragged her into this hellhole before. The memories didn’t slap her in the face like they had the first time. She didn’t see phantom outlines of the table and chairs, the blender, the toaster. She saw a squalid shooting gallery where souls came to die.
“Sid?” Andrew called.
Callie followed the sound of his voice into the living room.
Andrew was standing behind the bar. A large bottle of tequila and two shot glasses were in front of him. The gun in his hand was identical to the one Callie held in hers. She could see this detail in the otherwise dark and vacant house because candles were everywhere. Small ones, big ones. Lining the bar top, the floor, the ledge of the grimy windows. Light flickered up the walls like demonic tongues. Puffs of smoke cloistered around the ceiling.
“Calliope.” He placed the gun down on the bar. The candlelight brought a garish glow to the scratch down the side of his face. Her teeth marks had turned black on his neck. “Nice of you to show up.”
She looked around the room. Same soiled mattresses. Same disgusting carpet. Same feeling of hopelessness. “Where’s Walter?”
“Where’s Harleigh?”
“Probably burning down your ugly McMansion.”
Andrew’s hands rested flat on the bar. The gun was as close as the bottle of tequila. “Walter’s in the hall.”
Callie walked sideways, keeping the gun pointed in his direction. Walter was flat on his back. No visible wounds but a busted lip. His eyes were closed. His mouth gaped open. He wasn’t tied up, but he wasn’t moving, either. Callie pressed her fingers to the side of his neck. She felt a steady pulse.
She asked Andrew, “What did you do to him?”
“He’ll live.” Andrew picked up the tequila bottle. He twisted off the cap. His knuckles were hairy, but there was no grime under his fingernails. Buddy’s heavy gold watch hung loose around his narrow wrist.
Pour me one, baby doll.
Callie blinked, because the words were Buddy’s, but she had heard them in her own voice.
“Join me?” Andrew filled the two shot glasses.
Callie kept the gun out front as she walked toward the bar.
Instead of the fancy stuff he kept at home, Andrew had brought Jose Cuervo, the Walmart of shitfacing booze. The same brand that Callie had started drinking when Buddy had introduced her to the pleasures of alcohol.
She tasted blood from biting her lip. Buddy hadn’t introduced her to any pleasures. He had forced her to drink so that her body would relax and she would stop crying.
Callie glanced back in the hallway. Walter still wasn’t moving.
Andrew said, “I roofied him. He won’t bother us.”
Callie had not forgotten that Andrew favored Rohypnol. She told him, “Your father liked it when his victims were passed out and helpless, too.”
Andrew’s jaw tensed. He slid one of the glasses across the bar. “Let’s not delve into revisionist history.”
Callie stared at the white liquid. Rohypnol was colorless and tasteless. She grabbed the tequila by the handle and drank straight from the bottle.
Andrew waited for her to finish before he tossed back his drink. He turned the glass over and banged it down on the bar. “I take it from all the blood that Sidney isn’t well.”
“You could take it that she’s dead.” Callie watched his face, but no emotion registered in his expression. She imagined that Sidney would’ve had the same reaction. “Did you have her kill Leigh’s friend?”