The Knife is Gone

My hand found the pocket of my dress.

Empty.

The steak knife.

The one I had slipped into my pocket under the table. The one I used to slash Julian’s hand when he tried to drag me to the kitchen.

It was gone.

I patted my other pocket. My thigh. The floor around me.

Nothing.

I looked at Julian.

He was still lying on the floor, groaning. He hadn't moved.

But he was smiling.

He slowly, agonizingly, sat up. He reached into the waistband of his trousers, the ones that were now stained with grass and mud.

He pulled it out.

The steak knife.

The serrated blade glinted in the moonlight. It was small, unassuming. A tool for Sunday dinners.

But in his hand, it looked like a butcher’s cleaver.

"Looking for this?" he asked. His voice was ragged, wet.

I backed away, my hands up.

"How?" I whispered.

"You dropped it," he said. "When Elias tackled you. Amateur mistake."

He tried to stand up. He stumbled, falling onto one knee. He used the knife to steady himself, driving the tip into the wooden porch floor.

*Thunk.*

"You shouldn't play with sharp objects, darling," he said, pulling it free. "You might hurt yourself."

He looked at the knife. He ran his thumb along the blade.

"It's dull," he said critically. "I've been meaning to sharpen these."

He looked up at me.

"I guess I'll have to make do."

He stood up.

He wasn't fast anymore. He was hurt. Bleeding from the shoulder where I shot him. Bruised from the fight with Sloane. Burned from the explosion.

But he was relentless.

Like a terminator in a designer suit.

"Stay back," Elias said. He stepped in front of me, brandishing a heavy brass lamp he had grabbed from the side table.

"Elias," Julian sighed. "The neighbor. The extra."

He took a step forward.

"Get out of the scene, Elias. This is a monologue."

"Get out of my house!" Elias shouted. He swung the lamp.

Julian ducked. It was a clumsy, desperate swing.

Julian lunged. He drove the knife into Elias's thigh.

Elias screamed. He dropped the lamp. He fell back against the doorframe, clutching his leg.

"No!" I shouted.

I grabbed the umbrella stand—a heavy ceramic cylinder—and threw it at Julian.

It missed. It shattered against the wall.

Julian turned to me.

He pulled the knife out of Elias's leg. Blood sprayed.

He wiped the blade on his pants.

"Now," he said. "Where were we?"

He walked toward me.

I backed into the kitchen.

I needed a weapon. Anything.

The counters were cluttered. Newspapers. Takeout containers. Dirty dishes.

I grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove.

I held it up with both hands.

"Don't come any closer," I warned.

Julian stopped in the doorway. He looked at the skillet. He laughed.

"Kitchen violence," he said. "How domestic."

He took a step into the kitchen.

I swung.

He caught my wrist.

His grip was weak, but mine was weaker. I was exhausted. Terrified.

He twisted my arm. I dropped the skillet. It clattered to the floor with a deafening *bang*.

He pushed me back against the counter.

He pressed the knife against my throat.

Just the tip. Just enough to break the skin.

I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my neck.

"Please," I whispered.

"Please what?" he asked softly. "Please stop? Please don't kill me?"

He leaned in close. His breath smelled of smoke and mint.

"You ruined the ending, Elara. You ruined the whole arc."

He pressed the knife harder.

"But I can fix it. I can always fix it."

He looked at the knife. Then at me.

"A murder-suicide," he mused. "Tragic. The wife, driven mad by grief, kills the neighbor, then herself. The husband arrives too late to save them."

He smiled.

"It's a bit cliché. But it works."

He raised the knife.

I closed my eyes.

And then...

A sound.

From the living room.

A *click*.

The sound of a gun cocking.

Julian froze.

"Drop the knife," a voice said.

It wasn't Elias.

It was Sloane.

She was standing in the doorway, holding Miller's gun. The one I had dropped in the woods.

She must have gone back for it.

She was soaking wet. Her face was swollen. But her hands were steady.

"Sloane," Julian said, not turning around. "The sister. The subplot."

"Drop it," she repeated.

"You won't shoot," Julian said. "You don't have the nerve."

"Try me," she said.

He turned slowly. He kept the knife at my throat, using me as a shield.

"Put the gun down, Sloane. Or I open her up right here."

Sloane didn't waver.

"Let her go."

"No," he said. "We're going together. It's the only way."

He started to drag me backward. Toward the back door.

"Shoot him!" I screamed.

"I can't!" Sloane yelled. "I'll hit you!"

He was right. He was using my body perfectly.

We reached the back door. He kicked it open.

Rain blew in.

He dragged me out onto the porch.

"Goodbye, Sloane," he called out.

He pulled me down the steps. Into the yard.

We were in the open now.

"Where are we going?" I gasped.

"The woods," he said. "The original location."

He dragged me toward the tree line.

The mud sucked at my feet. I stumbled. I fell.

He yanked me up by my hair.

"Walk!"

We reached the trees. The darkness swallowed us.

He pushed me forward. "Move."

We walked for what felt like hours. Deeper into the woods. Toward the ravine.

My dress was torn. My feet were bleeding.

I stumbled again. I fell to my knees.

"Get up," he hissed.

"I can't," I sobbed. "I can't walk."

He grabbed my arm. He pulled.

"Get up!"

And then... he stopped.

He looked down at his hand.

The knife was gone.

He patted his pockets.

Nothing.

He looked back at the path we had walked.

"You dropped it," I whispered.

He stared at me.

"When I fell," I said. "You stumbled. You dropped it."

He roared. A sound of pure frustration.

He looked around. For a rock. A stick. Anything.

I saw my chance.

I reached into my pocket.

The lighter.

I still had it.

I pulled it out.

I didn't light it.

I threw it.

Not at him.

At the ground behind him.

Where the leaves were thick. And dry? No, wet.

It was useless.

He laughed.

"A lighter? In the rain?"

He shook his head.

"You really are pathetic."

He lunged for me.

He wrapped his hands around my throat.

"I don't need a knife," he snarled.

He squeezed.

I clawed at his face.

I couldn't breathe.

And then...

A light.

A flashlight beam.

Cutting through the trees.

"Police! Freeze!"

It wasn't Sloane. It wasn't Elias.

It was Miller.

He was limping. His uniform was torn. He had a bandage on his head.

But he had his backup gun.

And he was aiming it at Julian.

Julian froze.

He didn't let go of my throat.

"Let her go, Mr. Vance," Miller said. His voice was steady.

"She's crazy," Julian said. "She tried to kill me."

"I saw the flare," Miller said. "I saw the garage."

He took a step closer.

"Let her go."

Julian looked at Miller. Then at me.

He smiled.

"Okay," he said.

He let go.

I gasped, falling back onto the wet leaves.

Julian raised his hands.

"I surrender," he said.

Miller lowered the gun slightly. "Get on your knees."

Julian nodded.

He started to kneel.

And then... he moved.

Fast.

He pulled something from his boot.

Not a knife.

A screwdriver.

He threw it.

It hit Miller in the shoulder.

Miller cried out. He dropped the gun.

Julian dove for it.

I scrambled for it too.

We hit the mud together.

We wrestled for the gun.

It was slippery. Wet.

He was stronger. He wrenched it from my grip.

He aimed it at me.

"No more rewrites," he panted.

He pulled the trigger.

*Click.*

Empty.

He stared at the gun.

"You fired it," I whispered. "At the house. When you were shooting at the window."

He looked at me.

His face crumbled.

He threw the gun at me. It hit my shoulder.

He turned and ran.

He ran into the dark. Toward the ravine.

Miller was struggling to stand up.

"Go!" he shouted at me. "Go after him! Don't let him get away!"

I stood up.

I ran.

I chased him through the woods.

I could hear him crashing through the brush ahead of me.

He was heading for the old mill.

The ruins.

Where the fire started fourteen years ago.

Where it all began.

I burst into the clearing.

The mill was a skeleton of brick and iron, looming against the night sky.

Julian was climbing.

He was climbing the old water tower. The rusty ladder creaked under his weight.

"Julian!" I screamed.

He stopped. He looked down.

He was thirty feet up.

"It ends here," he called down.

He climbed higher.

I ran to the ladder. I started to climb.

The metal was cold. Slick with rain.

I looked down. The ground was far away.

I looked up.

Julian had reached the top. The catwalk.

He stood there, looking out over the town. Over the neighborhood he had built. Over the fire he had started.

I reached the top. I pulled myself over the railing.

We stood on the narrow metal walkway. Wind whipping our hair.

"It's a good view," he said.

"It's over," I said.

"Is it?"

He turned to me.

"Look."

He pointed.

At the town.

Lights were flashing everywhere. Fire trucks. Police cars.

But not just at our house.

At another house.

Across town.

My sister's apartment building.

"What did you do?" I whispered.

"I told you," he said. "I always have a backup plan."

He smiled.

"I sent a package. To Sloane's place. Scheduled for delivery tonight."

"She's not there," I said. "She's with Elias."

"Is she?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

My phone buzzed.

My burner.

I pulled it out.

A text from Sloane.

*I'm going home to get my cat. Meet me there.*

Sent ten minutes ago.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," he said.

He leaned against the railing.

"You can't save everyone, Elara. That's the tragedy."

I looked at him.

I hated him.

Pure, unadulterated hate.

I didn't want to arrest him. I didn't want to save him.

I wanted him gone.

I stepped toward him.

"You're right," I said. "I can't save everyone."

I shoved him.

He grabbed my arm.

We grappled on the edge. The railing groaned.

It was rusted. Old.

It gave way.

We fell.

Together.

Into the dark.