More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
She’s angry and lonely and looking for something she can’t quite name, and I think, God, that’s me, isn’t it?
So now it’s just me, alone on the bus at 10 p.m., on my way to Lars’ show, dressed like bait, because my roommate is pegging some guy and probably making a meal out of it.
His features are slack, his lips parted just enough to make him look dumb, his hair still falling into his eyes in a way that would’ve been sexy if I didn’t suddenly feel like I couldn’t breathe.
His official cause of death is a drug overdose, but she says it like its poetry, like he was lost to it, not swallowed whole.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
Same girl
When he finally turns, his eyes flick down to the gun, then back to my face. He doesn’t even get a word out before I pull the trigger. The blast knocks me back a step, my ears ringing, but it doesn’t hurt. Dave, though—Dave goes down immediately, his head splitting open like a fruit dropped from a great height. Blood and brain matter splash the walls, the floor, the couch. A chunk of his skull lands on the coffee table, and I take a moment to pick it up and toss it onto the rug.
The mess is worse than I expected. I reload the gun, the motions smooth now, almost instinctive, and wait for Milo to get home. He comes in about an hour later, jingling his keys like it’s a normal day, like he isn’t about to lose it all in the doorway. I shoot him before he even gets his shoes off, the blast ripping through his chest, sending him crumpling against the kitchen counter. His body slides down, leaving a streak of blood on the cabinets, his mouth still half-open like he was about to tell me about some conspiracy theory he’d read on the internet
“I don’t know,” I say, flipping the menu shut. “Maybe the arsenic.” He blinks, his expression wobbling somewhere between confusion and unease. “What?” “The arsenic,” I repeat, my voice flat. “I hear it pairs well with a dry white.”
“You ever eat a person?” I ask, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The next couple of weeks is a haze, like living inside a strobe light—flashes of blood, cameras, moaning, and the metallic taste of danger that never fully dissolves.
We all rot eventually. We all fall apart.
I close my eyes. I smile. I am famous. Alexa Valentine will be famous after this.
