Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,20
the edge of the bed for ten minutes, listening to the thudding of my pulse as the vodka creeps through my system. Drawing back a curtain, I watch as a tram rumbles laboriously down the street, sparks intermittently cascading from its overhead cable. Then I go to the chest of drawers, open the second drawer and take the Glock from beneath my bee-striped sweater. I’m sorry that I haven’t yet had the chance to wear the sweater, but it’s time to face the fact that my life is over. I have made a catastrophic series of decisions, the worst of which was entrusting my life to a murderer with mental health issues whose interest in me was fleeting at best. She persuaded me that there was nowhere else to hide, that she was my only chance of survival, and I in my turn persuaded myself that this was true.
Pathetic really, but it no longer matters. I’ve burned my bridges. I’m stateless, loveless and alone.
When I shoot myself, will it hurt? Will my last sensation be one of unimaginable pain? Or is it as they say, that you don’t hear the shot that kills you, let alone feel it. That it’s just… lights out?
I don’t think I can bear the idea of a head shot. I don’t want to be found with half my skull missing and my brains all over the silk-upholstered headboard and the damask curtains. I don’t particularly like Dasha, but neither do I want to force her to redecorate.
A heart shot, then. That will be appropriate in so many ways. It’ll probably take me a few moments longer to die, but I won’t be disfigured. Taking off my glasses, I put them on the bedside table. Then I kick off my shoes, and lie down on the bed with two pillows supporting my upper body. Here we go. An end to fear, to worry, to everything.
When I’m comfortable on the pillows, I slap the magazine into the Glock and rack the slide. The gun is now cocked, but to shoot myself in the heart I have to invert it, place the barrel against my chest and slip the pad of my thumb through the trigger guard. This is an awkward maneuver when you’re drunk. Glocks don’t have a safety catch, they have a double trigger. You have to engage both parts, and I’m just aligning them with my thumb when a faint sound penetrates my consciousness.
It’s Oxana. One moment she’s standing by the door, the next she’s on top of me, wrenching the Glock from my hands. I stare up at her. She’s shouting, but the movement of her mouth doesn’t correspond to the words. She bounces off the bed, stalks over to the window, wrenches open the curtains and stands with her back to me. There’s a metallic rasp and snap as she makes the Glock safe.
“What did you think you were doing?” Her voice is low, barely audible.
“What did it look like?”
“You’re not that stupid.”
“It wouldn’t be stupid. Give me one fucking reason to carry on.”
She frowns. “Us.”
“Us? Oxana, I just make you angry. You don’t tell me your plans, and when you speak to me, it’s like you hate me. There is no us.”
“Eve, please.”
“That’s what I mean. That tone of voice. I annoy you.”
“So you decide to kill yourself?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
She walks back to the bed. “You are such a dumbass, Eve. Such a fucking dumbass.”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m pretty smart. The dumbass is you.”
She sits on the bed, reaches out a hand, and touches my cheek. I slap her hand away, swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit bolt upright, shaking with fury.
“You look very sexy in that dress.”
I ignore her, stand up and start to walk toward the door, although I have no real idea where I’m going. She jumps off the other side of the bed, bounds across the room and blocks my path. I don’t slow down, but throw out an arm in front of me, grab her by the throat and slam her hard against the wall. I hold her there, she gasps and her eyes widen, but she doesn’t resist.
“I want you to show me some kindness,” I tell her, spitting the words in her face. “I don’t give a shit if that’s hard for you. It’s time you learned how to be a fucking human being.”
“I see.” Behind my hand, her neck is throbbing like an anaconda.
“No, you don’t