Dark Vengeance, Kristi Belcamino [i read books txt] 📗

somehow managing to end up on the other side of him. When he turned back, I lifted my legs and as soon as he grew close, my steel-toed boots connected with both of his kneecaps. I heard a satisfying crack, and he buckled to the floor.

But the knife was on the other side of him.

He lunged and aimed one meaty fist at my skull. His blow glanced off my shoulder, and I winced and grunted in pain. My entire arm felt numb. If he’d managed to land that blow on my skull, I would’ve been seeing stars. The momentum of his punch had thrown him slightly off balance since he was already balanced on his injured, possibly broken, kneecaps and he sort of tipped over onto the floor.

It gave me the chance to crab walk frantically away from him toward the knife. He was lunging toward me, somehow, miraculously back on his feet right when I got within reach of the handle of the knife sticking out from behind the door.

I’d managed to grasp the knife and lift it up right when he attacked again. He let out another angry roar and threw himself on me just as I lifted the blade of the knife. I gripped it with every ounce of my strength, and the weight of his body did the rest. It slid into his chest and then he collapsed partly on me.

His head was near my face and I saw the life leave his eyes as a small gurgle of blood erupted from his lips.

I rolled out from under him, shaking wildly. I needed the knife while I searched the rest of the house, but couldn’t bear to get near him to pull it out.

I raced over and searched the drawers, keeping an eye on the door leading out of the kitchen, but could find nothing else to use as a weapon except a meat cleaver. Grasping this, I crept out of the kitchen. It seemed impossible that our scuffle had gone unnoticed by others in the house, but the rest of the house was silent.

The front door was still wide open. Sticking to the shadows, I entered the main room. I’d seen a staircase earlier. I had just stepped out of the kitchen when I heard a low growl in front of me. The dog was in the doorway. The porch light made him a dark silhouette. He padded closer and then began to bark, his entire body writhing with each snap of his jaw. I backed into the kitchen very slowly. The dog stood his ground, alternately growling and barking.

Damn it. I was not going to hurt the dog. Not if I could help it.

As soon as I was inside, I tried to tug at the door of the kitchen to close it, but the man’s body was blocking it. I managed to roll him over just as the dog bounded into the room, snarling. I leaped onto the kitchen counter near the door and then propelled myself over the top of both the man and the dog, gripping the door handle on my way down. I pulled it shut just as I heard the thump of the dog’s body landing on the door behind me.

I raced for the stairs now.

Because the element of surprise had long passed and anyone in the house clearly knew I was there, I hit every light switch I passed. Upstairs I found a master suite. Empty. A master bath. Empty. Three other bedrooms. All empty. One of the rooms had an ashtray filled with cigarettes and a small bedside lamp on. The dead man’s, I bet.

The other two bedrooms had bars on the windows. And deadbolts on the outside of the doors. I paused in each one of them, looking for some sign that Rose had been there. They were sterile and bare—simply a bed with the frame bolted to the wall. And an armchair bolted to the floor.

I went back to the master bedroom. It had a large dark bedframe and a bookshelf lining one wall. I examined the room carefully, hoping it would give me a clue to the owner of the house.

X.

The books were both classics and nonfiction on a variety of subjects.

The book on the nightstand was something by a political commentator writing about wealth and power. Beside it was a framed picture that I picked up and looked at closely.

The infamous X.

Cropped blonde hair growing gray. Piercing blue eyes. A fit body in a gray dress shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal a tanned chest and abs. His lips were pursed in a smirk. He looked like he was in his forties. The photo of him standing in front of a tropical looking beach looked professional, like someone would use for a dating app.

Who the fuck kept a framed, professional picture of themselves on their nightstand? I took out my phone and snapped a picture of it before setting it back.

I glanced quickly at the art on the wall. I could be wrong, but they looked like original Damien Hirst pieces—one of a skull and another of a prescription pill.

The room, like the rest of the house and bedrooms, was minimalist. But what it did contain was expensive and luxurious. The bedding was fluffy and had a creamy satin sheen. The occupant of this room clearly liked the finer things in life.

A dark wood dresser was against one wall. I pulled open the drawers. There were neatly stacked T-shirts—all dark gray—in one drawer. Another held brand new identical jeans with the tags still on them. Another held new socks and new underwear. It was as if the occupant of the room—X—only wore new clothing. One drawer held a case with four expensive watches—all gold—all identical. Some expensive, famous brand I was sure.

In the closet, there was a suit and four pairs of identical shoes on a rack.

I looked at the closet again. It contained four pressed white shirts, four black blazers and four pairs