Chapter 23
Abbott had done everything he could to forget: washed the blood from his face, thrown away the shirt he had worn, tossed the hatchet into the cold waters of the lake.
Was Beth dead? Had she died from shock? He couldn’t think about that now. If she was, he’d burn the cottage, go back to Chicago, and pretend none of this had happened. He could hide in his apartment in Bridgeport, hide from everyone, including his landlady, Ila Perkins. The woman didn’t realize he knew who she was.
But thinking about Beth’s mortality, Chicago, or Ila Perkins couldn’t erase what he had done. He could still see the fingers flying into the air, the blood spurting. And the smell of the burning flesh as he cauterized the stumps haunted him, that sickening sweet odor. Would he never be able to force i
