“Greg?”
“Greg?”
“Stop faking it. Get up.”
Kelly tossed the knife aside, then nudged Greg with her foot.
Greg pressed one hand to his throat and reached out to her with the other, mumbling, trying to beg for help. As soon as he opened his mouth, blood just gushed out.
Kelly stood there, face blank, just watching. She saw his breathing slow down, saw his hand slip from his neck and drop to the floor.
He wanted her to save him? Not a chance.
She’d gone at him with the knife fully intending he wouldn’t make it out alive. There was no way she’d suddenly have a change of heart and save him now. Hurt her? Maybe she could have let that slide. Hurt her son? She’d rather die than let that go.
There was a murder at the hotel.
Kelly called the police herself.
The police and the coroner showed up at almost the same time. With the holidays coming up, nobody needed a murder on their hands—especially not at a hotel in this neighborhood.
At the police station, Kelly stuck to her story: Greg tried to rape her. She fought back, and things got out of control.
“Where’d the knife come from?” the detective asked.
Kelly said, “No idea. It was just sitting on the nightstand.”
He glanced at the forensics report. “But your fingerprints are the only ones on it.”
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