Destroy Me by Karen Cole (red queen ebook .txt) 📕

There was no fuss. We never spoke of it again. The road to hell isn’t always paved with good intentions. Sometimes the road to hell is the easiest route – the path of least resistance.

Twenty-four

Outside there’s a crack of thunder and it starts raining hard. Wind and rain batter the bathroom window.

I want to drink myself into a stupor, take sleeping pills – do anything to erase the image of that little girl. Daisy Foster – the little girl who never got to grow up or have a life. She’s never going to have a job, get married or have children of her own. All because of me. I want to forget her, but it’s impossible. Her face is tattooed on to my mind and nothing I can do will ever change that. I rummage in the bathroom cabinet and find the packet of Xanax which I persuaded the doctor to prescribe me after Theo left. I swallow a couple, washed down with water from the tap. Then I splash cold water on my face and rinse out the vomit from my hair, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It’s strange how the turmoil inside me doesn’t show on my face. I’m a little pale and there are dark shadows under my eyes. But that’s all. I look normal, which is good because I’ve arranged to meet Luke at midday.

I check the time on my phone. It’s nearly eleven already. Shit. Meeting Luke is the last thing I feel like doing right now, but I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. Who knows if or when he’d agree to talk to me again? So I shower quickly and change into clean jeans and a shapeless green t-shirt. Then I scrape some eyeliner around my eyes, smear some cover-up over the dark shadows and pull my hair back into a ponytail. When I’ve finished, I smile at myself in the mirror with grim satisfaction. I look battle ready, resolute. There’s no way I’m going to let Luke get away with his lies. But I’m not taking any chances. After all, Luke is at least seven inches taller than me and I know that if things get physical, I don’t stand a chance.

Downstairs, I google homemade pepper spray on my phone and follow the instructions, making a simple mix of crushed-up chilli, black pepper and water, heating it in the microwave and then pouring it into an empty perfume bottle. I screw on the lid, put it in my pocket and practise drawing it out quickly and squirting it like a gunslinger in the Wild West. A real gun would be more useful, I think, but how on earth do you get a gun in this country? If I lived in America I could probably just go to the local Walmart and buy one off the shelf. But here, in the UK, I don’t know. Farmers and hunters must have guns. There must be a way. I’m halfway through typing how to get a gun into Google, when I’m brought up short. How can I be so stupid? Everything you do on the Internet can be tracked and it won’t exactly help me prove my innocence if the police find out that I’ve been looking into buying a firearm. Taking a deep breath, I delete the search. I can’t believe it’s come to this. Only a few weeks ago, everything was normal. I was getting used to the idea of life without Theo. Okay, I wasn’t exactly happy, but I was managing – everything was under control. Now my world seems to have imploded. I’m a suspect in a murder case and I’ve become so paranoid that here I am making pepper spray and considering buying a gun.

I don’t need a weapon, I tell myself as I’m leaving the house. Luke isn’t dangerous. He’s just an arsehole who cheats on his wife and thinks he can get away with it. Even so, I pop the bottle of pepper spray in my handbag just in case.

There’s no one at reception or in the waiting room at Cotswolds Dental surgery. I stand in reception and look around the room at the pictures on the walls of people’s open mouths and rows of teeth in various stages of decay. It’s Sunday, of course, so it’s natural that there’s no one here. But still feeling slightly unnerved, I ring the bell on the desk, and after a few seconds, Luke appears from a back room. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s shaking off his hands as if he’s just washed them.

‘Cat, hi,’ he says, leading me into a small back kitchen with a table and a fridge.

‘Please take a seat,’ he says neutrally, as if I’m a patient. He perches on a stool opposite me and meets my eyes directly. There is no shame in them, but there’s something else I can’t quite read. I force myself to look at him dispassionately – the perfect dimpled chin, the beautiful, murky green eyes. I try to block the memory of the weight of him on top of me and the thrust of his hips. I feel a thrill of fear. We’re all alone, I think. I know how strong he is. This man could easily overpower me. I should have agreed to let Theo come with me. I finger the phone in my pocket, wondering whether to call him now. But then I think about last night, about Harper. I can’t call Theo. It’s too humiliating.

He watches me carefully and I fidget uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

‘Why an architect?’ I ask, staring out of the window at the rain sluicing against the pane. It’s hard to look at him directly. The atmosphere is tense. The air is crackling with it. Anger? Fear? From me or from him? Maybe both.

‘What?’

‘When you were . . . at my house, you told me you were an architect.’

He shrugs. ‘If I’d told you I was a dentist, you might have been able to find