The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,67

do. Nothing was wrong. I just had a situation. And situations have solutions.

“I need stitches,” I say, talking myself through it.

But I can’t go get stitches because (1) I’m in no condition to drive, (2) no one else here is, either, (3) I’ll surely be questioned about my wounds, which will lead to the cat’s escape being discovered, followed by the loss of the family business, and, of course, there’s (4) I’ve committed a handful of felonies this evening and will surely be found out if I seek medical attention.

“Okay.” I nod, agreeing with my train of thought. “I can’t get stitches at a hospital. What else can I do?”

Stitching myself up might be an option. I’d closed a few of Cecil’s wounds when he didn’t want animal services getting too interested in us. But I’m not at home. I’m at the Allan house, and the chances of finding a needle and thread are pretty slim, the availability of boiling water or a disinfectant even slimmer. So stitches are out of the question. But I need to close the wounds, and I need to do it fast.

“Okay,” I agree with myself. “But how?”

The room starts to go sideways, so I lean my head back, watching the lights above me fade in and out as my focus shifts, my eyes wandering from the naked glass bulbs to the live wire above them, held in place with staples. I’d helped Ribbit hang the lights this afternoon, following his instructions and grabbing anything he needed out of my backpack.

Pliers. Hammer. Duct tape.

Duct tape.

I scramble, wriggling around to get my pack off with one good arm while trying to keep the other one elevated. I pull back the zipper with my teeth and spot the roll—the edge curled under so that it won’t stick down, like Dad taught me. I grab it and just start wrapping, rolling it around and around my arm, watching the mess of my skin—the open wounds, the dripping blood—covered with length after length of neat, orderly silver tape.

It doesn’t last, of course. Blood starts to seep out of the edges immediately, so I keep rolling, faster now, enough that I can actually smell the tape starting to get warm, see tiny fibers floating through the air as I spin and spin, patching myself up with the only thing I’ve got.

I’m sweating when I finish, patting down the end with my nose. My left arm is pure tape from elbow to wrist, and I wound it too tight; I can feel my pulse in my hand. My fingers will be blue sooner rather than later. But I’m not bleeding anymore, and that was my main concern. The situation was that I was going to bleed to death; now I’m not.

“Problem solved,” I say, trying to put more confidence in my voice than I actually feel. I toss the empty tape roll in the direction of the sink but miss by a long shot. It hits the wall, leaving behind an indentation in the plaster, and falls down behind an ancient fridge.

It’ll be here forever now, after the bulldozers leave and the walls have come down. Once the bricks collapse and the studs bust and the nails fly and the concrete crumbles, that little something that I put here will be a permanent part of the Allan house ruins.

I’ve got the chance to bury everything I’ve done wrong, right along with it. Leave Felicity Turnado to die, and move on with my life like nothing ever happened, same as she did to me. But I can’t get the sound of her voice out of my head. Not when she screams fuck you, or tells me that I’m living off her charity whether I like it or not. Not when her words come out nasty because her mouth is twisted the way her mother’s always has been. No, it’s how she sounds when she says my name.

She says Tress Montor like it’s a name that still matters.

She says it like we’re still friends.

I told the cat I could do it, could kill someone. And I don’t think that’s a lie. I just don’t know if I can kill Felicity Turnado.

I set my jaw, grab a chair, and pull myself to my feet.

Chapter 53

Felicity

I’m not good at staying still, and Tress knows that. This has not always been true, and Tress knows that, as well.

I roll my head to the side, trying to find a spot on the rock behind me that doesn’t