struggled to stay conscious.
I looked up at Jackson, who stood over me, the bloodied knife hanging by his side. He wasn’t the well-coiffed graphic designer who loved expensive hair gel anymore but the maniacal drug- and booze-addled murderer that Terri had painted him to be that time in my kitchen. I tried to sit up but I was too dizzy, so I stayed prone, looking up at the fluffy clouds, hoping that if there was a heaven, my parents were waiting for me when I got there.
But before I succumbed to this knife-wielding psycho, I needed to know one thing. “Why did you kill her, Jackson?” I gasped.
His answer was succinct and direct. “I was tired of the cheating.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But divorce seemed a lot less messy to me.”
He wiped his hand across his brow and I saw the blood from my hand paint a dark streak on his skin. He was out of breath from his short run across the lawn and he struggled to catch his breath. I was in luck—I had been knifed by an out-of-shape assailant. “She wasn’t going for that,” he said. He knelt in front of me, his knees straddling my legs. He hung his head and tried to get his breathing back to normal.
I figured I should warn him. “There’s a very large man in my house with an even bigger gun. And when he sees you filet me, he’s going to shoot you in the head.” I chuckled, slightly hysterical. “Just thought I should let you know.” I picked up my hand and looked at the defensive knife wound. “Wow,” I said, in wonder. “This hurts more than when I got shot. And that hurt a lot.” My palm was in two pieces, clear down to the bone. My other hand was trapped under my leg and I couldn’t get it loose, what with Jackson’s weight pinning me down. “And even if you don’t kill me, he’s going to kill you for doing this,” I said, showing him my injured hand.
“You talk too damn much,” he said, and raised the knife above his head again.
“And your French stinks,” I said, taking the heel of my palm and shoving it as hard as I could stand into his face.
The pain shot through me, white hot, but I managed to push Jackson onto his back. I got to my knees and staggered, half standing, pushing off the grass with my good hand. I curled my wounded palm into my chest and looked up, hoping to see Crawford come out the back door of my house. But my backyard was vacant, except for a very troubled Trixie, who continued to walk in circles, her head hanging low. When she saw me approach her, her instincts kicked in and she ran to my side, licking my good hand. Apparently, she had decided who she would defend.
Jackson got up and ran toward us but Trixie let out a sinister-sounding growl to warn him off. She separated the two of us, and in that instant, I saw in Jackson’s eyes that he was deciding how quickly he could kill the dog before he got to me.
“If you hurt a hair on her head, Jackson, I will tear you limb from limb,” I said, and knelt beside Trixie, holding her collar in my good hand. “This dog is the best thing to come out of your house. And this whole mess.” I heard the back door open and the screen door slam shut as Crawford’s calm and reassuring voice drifted across to me.
“Alison, get up and walk toward me with the dog. Jackson, don’t move or I will shoot you,” he said, the last part more of a promise than a threat.
I stood and pulled Trixie along. The front of my shirt was soaked with my blood and it clung to my chest, heavy and wet. I stumbled toward Crawford, who was shirtless and pointing the gun very steadily in Jackson’s direction, despite being fifty feet from his target. His sweatpants hung on his slim hips and his feet were bare.
“Drop the knife, Jackson, and then put your hands where I can see them,” he said, still calm. He took short steps toward Jackson, who stood on the other side of the hedgerow. “Go inside, Alison,” he said. “The boy’s already called 911.”
Nothing doing. I wasn’t leaving him outside with that guy, no matter what. Trixie and I stood behind him on the patio and watched the