Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m dying.”
She laughed. It wasn’t joy. It was rage.
“You’re still protecting that bitch Sierra?! Even now?”
She grabbed my hand—and without hesitation, snapped my ring finger backward.
The wedding ring was still there on my finger.
A strangled wail tore from my throat.
"Will you tell me now?" she demanded, grabbing my chin and forcing me to meet her bloodshot eyes. "What did Sierra do to my brother that night?"
Sweat streamed down my face. I could barely breathe.
"Wait until I’m dead," I rasped. "Then you’ll know."
She stared at me for a long second. Misreading my pain for defiance, her voice trembled with fury.
"You really think I want you dead?"
Another sickening crack—my index finger snapped, the pain blinding.
"Will you tell me?"
"Kill me." My voice was hoarse, broken. Tears spilled freely. "Kill me, and you’ll get your truth."
Her hands trembled. Her eyes—so red they were nearly glowing—fixed on mine with chilling resolve.
"Fine," she whispered. "I’ll satisfy you."
She pulled out a wrench. A heavy, rusted thing. And aimed it at my hands.
"No—Celeste, wait—AHH!!"
Ten fingers. One by one. Shattered.
But what hurt more than the bone, the flesh, the agony... was the hollow crack in my chest.
I collapsed to the ground, my lips tinged purple, blood bubbling between them. Celeste stood over me, wrench in hand, her body trembling.
"If I hurt you," she muttered, "I'll go to prison with you."
I spat out blood. Then, with the last bit of strength left in my mangled fingers, I fumbled at my shirt, tearing the buttons off.
"You want the truth?" I croaked. "I'll show you."
I pulled the fabric open, revealing the disfigured skin beneath—raw, scarred, grotesque.
Celeste froze. The wrench slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
