Chapter 11: Sweet Girls Don’t Hold Knives

 

Katarina’s POV, Liam’s House

“Kat?” Liam’s voice floated from the other room, soft and strange. I tightened my grip on the knife.

The knife trembled in my hand, so badly I almost dropped it. Instead, I slid it into the deep pocket of Liam’s trousers—the ones I’d stolen off him when he wasn’t paying attention.

I pressed my back to the cold counter, the blade slipping dangerously across my sweaty thighs. Every breath felt too loud, too risky. The old wood floor creaked beneath my bare feet with every tiny shift.

I couldn't fucking move in this place I couldn't fucking breathe.

Liam paced the living room, mumbling to himself in that weird, nerdy, too-sweet voice. The same “gentle” side that gave me burnt toast and mint tea—right after nearly snapping my wrist against the door.

The house reeked of old soap, dust, and something sweetly rotten—like overripe fruit. My hair clung to my damp skin, sweat pooling under my ribs and thighs. Every hair on my arms stood on edge.

I didn’t trust Liam anymore. The Liam who came to the bookstore and always encouraged me

Not even the soft version of him.  Especially not him.

“Kat?” Liam’s voice floated into the kitchen. High. Uncertain. “I found... something for you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the knife tighter against my leg to keep from dropping it.

His Footsteps shuffled closer, and  I braced myself.

When I finally opened my eyes Liam stood in the doorway, grinning too wide, his eyes glassy. And in his hands... a tiny pink baby dress. A goddamn baby dress.

"I thought... maybe you'd need this," he mumbled, cradling it like it was some sacred offering. "You’re small. It could fit. Pretty on you."

My heart beat so fast I thought it would crack my ribs open.

I didn't move. I didn't speak.

I just nodded slowly, praying he wouldn't notice how close I was to bolting.

His smile faltered, like he wasn't sure if he was happy or furious.

"And this too," he whispered, pulling a gleaming razor blade from his back pocket. "In case you need to cut... something."

The razor glinted under the flickering kitchen light.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to drive the knife into the wall and run barefoot into the dark.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

I forced a tiny smile. "Thank you, Liam. That's... very sweet of you."

He beamed—one of those hollow smiles that never reached his eyes.

Then he shuffled back to the living room, humming a broken, tuneless song.

I gripped the counter until my knuckles went white.  I had to get out. Tonight.

I spotted it by accident—his medicine cabinet, rattling with pill bottles under the sink.

Names I couldn’t pronounce. Antipsychotics. Mood stabilizers. Heavy shit.

I stared at them, heart pounding so hard it blurred my vision, and A wicked idea slithered into my head.

If I could crush the pills. Get him to drink it.

 Maybe, just maybe, I could knock him out long enough to run.

Thirty seconds. That’s all I needed.

Just thirty seconds of silence. Of escape.

I moved fast, very Silent. Crushing two pills between the edge of a spoon and the counter, the powder was fine and bitter under my nails.

The whole time, my heart slammed against my ribs.

I stirred the dust into a glass of orange juice so hard my hand shook the glass nearly over.

I grabbed it and forced myself to breathe. To smile. To pretend.

"Liam?" I called sweetly.

He turned from the couch, blinking at me with his glassy eyes.

"You must be thirsty," I said, stepping closer, holding out the cup. His eyes narrowed. Suspicion flickered there for a second. My skin prickled with sweat.

"Drink with me," he said instead, his voice low and weirdly serious. Panic bolted through me.

"Of course," I forced a giggle, grabbing a second empty cup and pretending to pour myself a drink.

I raised the empty glass to my lips. “Cheers,” I said with a shaky smile.

One second. Two.

Then, slowly, Liam brought the cup to his lips. I held my breath so hard my lungs screamed.

He gulped half the glass in one swallow.  I almost dropped to my knees from the relief.

But I didn’t move.  Not yet.

Liam blinked, confusion fogging his face. He stumbled back onto the couch, the glass slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.

I watched, frozen, as he swayed, muttering to himself.

"No... don't leave... don't leave..." he slurred.

His body slumped into the chair. His head rolled back.

Still. Silent.

I stood there, fists clenched, my whole body trembling. Had I given him too much?  Was he dead?

I rushed over, pressing two fingers against his neck.

Pulse. Faint. But there. I let out a shuddering breath. I didn't have time to think.

I yanked his phone from his jeans, my hands slick with sweat.

They shook so bad I could barely punch in Mateo’s number from memory.

Finally—my brain saving me when I needed it.

Mateo. Mateo. Mateo.

I called him, but it went to voicemail 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Come on. Pick up.  Pick up, pick up, pick up!

No answer.

I couldn’t wait. I left a voicemail—frantic, whispering like I was already being hunted.

“Mateo, it’s me. Kat. Meet me at our spot—the bus station. Please. Please, I need you.”

I dropped the phone and hugged myself, fighting the sob rising in my chest. Why wasn't he answering? Why wasn’t he coming?

Maybe the cartel already got him. Maybe it was already too late.

A flash hit me—the last time I saw him, right before I jumped out that window.

Right before I left him with those men.

I couldn’t hide. Not anymore.

I couldn’t sit here and rot while they ripped my brother apart.

I had to move.  I had to run.

I crept to the front door—barefoot, bruised, heart jackhammering like it wanted out of my chest.

The towel was long gone. I wore one of Liam’s oversized shirts and trousers, drowning in the fabric, his old sneakers flopping two sizes too big.

I didn't care. I just needed to move.

I slipped out into the night, the air slapping my face with cold fury.

The streets were half-dead.

Silent—except for the distant growl of a car rolling somewhere far off.

Every step on the cracked pavement was agony.

Blistered feet bled. Thighs screamed from bruises.

But I didn’t stop.

I kept going—toward the bus station.

The spot Mateo told me to run to if things ever went wrong.

They’d gone so fucking wrong.

I waited, shivering beneath a busted streetlamp.

Five minutes. Ten.

Nothing.

I hugged myself, tighter and tighter, bones rattling from fear and cold.

And then, A rumble, A black van. Speeding toward me.

Its headlights are like twin knives stabbing through the darkness.

My heart stopped.  My whole body locked up.

Where was Mateo?Why the hell was this van heading straight for me?

Tires screeched. The van lurched to the curb.

The passenger door creaked open.

Men in black jackets. Hard faces. Hungry eyes.

Not Mateo. Definitely not Mateo.

I froze. Breath caught. Blood turned to ice.

I didn’t know it yet… but I wasn’t alone. And the streets I was running on? Already soaked in blood — and crawling with men who knew my name.