The Tape

I slashed.

Not random. Not in panic.

A precise, deliberate incision.

The blade bit into the fabric of his trousers, right above the knee. I felt the resistance of the wool, then the skin, then the dense, ropy muscle underneath.

I pulled.

The X-Acto blade was small, but it was sharp enough to cut through mat board. It was sharp enough to cut through tendon.

I felt the snap.

Like a violin string breaking under too much tension. A vibration that traveled up my arm and into my teeth.

The quadriceps tendon. The anchor of the leg. The only thing keeping him standing.

It parted.

The muscle, suddenly untethered, recoiled violently. It rolled up his thigh like a window shade snapping open, bunching into a grotesque, spasming lump near his hip.

Julian didn't scream. Not immediately.

He gasped. A wet, sucking sound. His eyes went wide, the pupils blowing out until there was no color left, just black holes of shock.

He looked down at his leg.

At the blood soaking through the midnight blue wool. At the impossible shape of his own thigh.

Then the pain hit.

It tore out of him. A shriek that shattered the polite jazz music, that silenced the chatter, that stopped the world.

He collapsed.

His leg folded beneath him, useless as wet paper. He hit the glass floor. *THUD.*

The impact sent a tremor through the soles of my feet.

The guests turned. They saw him. They saw the blood.

Screams. Panic. The sound of expensive shoes scrambling for the door.

"Oh my god! He's hurt!"

"Call an ambulance!"

I stood over him. Breathing hard. My hand was sticky. The blade was red.

I looked at him.

He was writhing, clutching his ruined leg. His hands slipped in the blood that was pooling on the glass, bright and oxygenated.

"Elena," he wheezed. "What did you do?"

"I fixed it," I said. My voice sounded hollow. Distant.

"Help me!" he shouted to the room. "She's crazy! She cut me!"

The guests surged forward, a wave of concern and horror. Santos was pushing through the crowd, his hand on his holster.

"Stay back!" I screamed.

I raised the blade.

They froze.

"Stay back! The floor is unstable!"

I pointed to the pillar.

The crack.

The flare had burned out, leaving a scorched black scar on the concrete. But the damage was done. The heat had compromised the core. The weight of the cantilevered floor, the vibrations of the party, the impact of Julian's fall... it was too much.

*CRACK.*

A sound like a gunshot.

A spiderweb of white lines appeared in the glass, radiating out from Julian's body.

The floor groaned. A deep, sick sound of metal twisting and glass failing.

"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out now!"

Panic took over.

The guests turned and ran. A stampede of silk and tuxedos, pushing and shoving toward the door. The Minister of Culture fell. Someone stepped on him. No one stopped.

"Elena!" Julian gasped. He reached out a bloody hand. "Help me."

I looked at him.

I looked at the blood on his hands. The blood on the floor.

I thought about the cage. I thought about the pills. I thought about the way he had looked at me when he told me I was crazy.

"No," I whispered.

The floor shuddered.

And then... it gave way.

It wasn't a crash. It was a sigh. The sound of something finally giving up.

The glass panel beneath him tilted. Just a few inches.

But it was enough.

He slid.

He clawed at the surface, his fingernails screeching against the glass. He tried to grab the edge of the next panel.

But his hands were slick with blood.

He slipped.

"Elena!"

He fell.

Into the hole. Into the dark.

I watched him go.

I didn't blink.

He fell silently into the darkness, swallowed by the night and the ocean below.

Then... a splash.

Distant. Final.

I stood there. Alone.

On the edge of the abyss.

The wind howled up through the hole, carrying the smell of the sea and the scent of rain.

"Don't move."

A voice. Behind me.

Santos.

I turned slowly.

He was standing by the fireplace. His gun was in his hand. Pointed at my chest.

He looked at the hole in the floor. Then he looked at me.

His face was pale. But his eyes were cold.

"You killed him," he said.

"He fell," I said. My voice was flat. Empty.

"You pushed him."

He walked toward me. Careful. Testing the floor.

"Put the knife down, Mrs. Mercer."

I looked at the X-Acto blade. It was small. Useless against a gun.

I dropped it.

*Clatter.*

"Good," Santos said. "Now. Hands behind your head."

I raised my hands.

He stopped a few feet away.

"This is a tragedy," he said. "A terrible accident. The wife goes crazy. Attacks her husband. They struggle. The floor gives way."

He smiled. A thin, cruel smile.

"And then... she jumps. Grief. Remorse."

He was going to kill me.

Right here. Right now.

And write the report himself.

"Goodbye, Elena," he said.

He raised the gun.

I closed my eyes.

*Bang.*

The shot was deafening.

I flinched. I waited for the pain.

But it didn't come.

I opened my eyes.

Santos was looking down at his chest.

There was a red flower blooming on his white shirt.

He looked surprised.

He dropped the gun. He fell to his knees.

Then he collapsed. Face first onto the floor.

I looked up.

Kieran was standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

He was holding a gun. A big, black pistol.

Smoke curled from the barrel.

He looked pale. Sweaty. His shoulder was bandaged with a bloody rag.

But he was standing.

"Kieran," I whispered.

He lowered the gun. He leaned against the doorframe, gasping for breath.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

"We have to go," he said. "The police are coming. Real police."

He limped toward me. He offered me his hand.

I took it.

He pulled me up.

"Where did you get the gun?" I asked.

"Guard," he said. "He dropped it when the alarm went off."

He looked at Santos's body.

"Sorry," he said. "I missed the leg."

I laughed. A short, hysterical sound.

"It's okay," I said. "I think he'll live."

He wouldn't. He was dead. I knew dead when I saw it.

But I didn't care.

"Come on," Kieran said. "The van."

We ran.

Through the kitchen. Down the stairs. To the basement.

The generator was chugging. The lights flickered.

We ran out the back door.

The garden was empty. The guests were gone.

We ran to the service gate.

The van was there.

But the driver was gone.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Don't know," Kieran said. "Don't care. Get in."

I climbed into the driver's seat. Kieran got in the passenger side.

I started the engine.

I drove.

Fast.

Down the winding road. Through the open gate.

Away from the House of Mercy. Away from the bodies.

I looked in the rearview mirror.

The house was glowing on the cliff. Lights blazing.

Like a beacon.

Or a warning.

"Where are we going?" Kieran asked.

"The port," I said. "The ferry."

"Do we have tickets?"

"No," I said. "But we have money."

I touched the pocket of my torn dress.

The keys. Julian's keys.

I had taken them from his pocket before he fell.

And the phone.

I drove to the port.

The ferry was loading. A line of cars and trucks.

I drove past them. To the front.

I flashed the fake papers Kieran had made. The guard waved us through.

We drove onto the boat.

We parked in the back, behind a truck full of sheep.

I turned off the engine.

Silence.

I looked at Kieran.

He was slumped in the seat, his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow.

"Kieran?"

"I'm okay," he whispered. "Just... tired."

I reached over. I took his hand.

"We made it," I said.

He squeezed my hand.

"Yeah. We made it."

The ferry whistle blew. A long, mournful sound.

The boat shuddered. We started to move.

I watched the island recede. The lights of the town shrinking into the distance.

I took a deep breath.

The air smelled of salt and diesel and sheep.

It smelled like freedom.

I leaned back in the seat.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in three years