Page 111 of My Killer Blind Date

My vision is seriously spotty. I blink hard, trying to stay conscious, trying to stay in control—

‘Put down the knife,’ says George in an even voice. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

Zoe grabs the edge of the oven to help herself to standing, her maimed leg hanging, her left hand still gripping the knife, her eyes now on me.

But even though she’s literally holding a weapon, she doesn’t look evil right now to me. Just pathetic, her hair straggly, her body sagging, her mouth bloody. Just weak and damaged and tired. A victim. Her favorite role. And even if it started as a front, a way to manipulate things in her favor, somewhere along the line, she bought into it too. This is the version of herself she truly believes in.

‘Zoe—’ I say, but that’s all I can manage. Her name. A wave of nausea moves through me, and my vision spots again.

Zoe’s face tightens. A single tear squeezes out. She looks at me and me alone and gives her head the smallest shake. My vision is blurred, and for a second, it looks like a halo is glowing around her head, like her painting.

‘I won’t let them cage me, Margot.’ Her eyes are both fierce and pleading. ‘Remember? Live free or die.’ And then, she flings open the door to the retort, releasing a blast of heat.

‘Zoe!’ I shriek.

She gives me one last look, and for the breath of a second, I see not the murderer, or the painter, or the roommate, or even the victim she so fiercely believed she was – but my friend.

And then she’s in the oven, and the door is closing and her face contorts as she draws the knife against her throat with a liquid shriek, falling back. The last thing I see before the door closes is her hair catching fire.

And then, silence.

‘We have to get her out!’ I scream, grabbing the gurney to try and help myself stand. ‘Help – we have to turn it off—’

‘No,’ says a voice. George, behind me, wrapping her arms around me, holding me back.

‘But we have to save her!’ I sob, sinking back down against George.

‘She’s gone, Margot,’ says George, squeezing me tight. ‘You’ve hung on long enough. Let her go.’

And, leaned against George, I let go, and black out.

Chapter Thirty-eight

I shift in the sheets, a gentle beeping making its way into my awareness.

I open my eyes slowly and take in the heart monitor that’s squiggling lines on to a screen. I move my hand – there’s a pulse ox on my finger. An IV in my wrist. I shift again and feel pain in about a dozen places, starting with my throat when I swallow. I probe it gently with my free hand.

Also, I’m in a hospital gown and suddenly all I can think is, who the hell saw my naked body?? I have vague memories of an ambulance arriving – police cars too – of EMTs loading me on to a stretcher, of me saying, ‘Where’s Liam? I need to go with Liam—’ and then it’s all pretty fuzzy.

Liam. His name pulses in my head with sudden urgency. Where is he? Is he alive? And Brooke – what happened to her?

I reach for the nurse call button and press it. A voice answers through a speaker.

‘How can I help you?’

‘I need to know if Brooke Walsh and Liam Porter are OK. Can someone please check? Right away?’

There’s a pause, like the nurse is digesting my word vomit.

Then, ‘Give me a second.’ There’s a silence. ‘Ma’am, I can confirm both parties are in this hospital and in stable condition.’

Oh thank God. ‘I need to see Liam. Can I get a wheelchair? Can someone please take me to him, right now?’

Another silence. ‘I’ll ask your nurse to stop in, but ma’am, I believe the police are on the way to your room.’

She disconnects. I ease my head back on the pillow. But on the heels of the relief that Liam is stable, and close by, there’s a terrible stabbing pain in my heart.

My friend is dead.