The Man Who Looks Like Him

Chapter 4

The sound of the gunshot exploded in the tiny room, deafening and impossible. For a second, nothing made sense.

The recoil slammed through her wrists. Her ears rang so hard it felt like her skull had cracked open. The smell of gunpowder rushed into the air, sharp and hot and wrong.

Andrew staggered back. His expression changed before her brain could fully register what had happened. The look on his face wasn’t rage like she’d expected. It was pure, unadulterated shock. She had actually pulled the trigger.

The knife slipped from Andrew’s hand and hit the floor with a dull clatter. He looked down, both of them watching the stain spread across his shirt. It widened the deep, red wine stain, but now it’s thicker. Blood.

A wet, choking sound escaped him. Taylor didn’t move, couldn’t.

Andrew took one step backward, then another. He presses his hand uselessly against his chest. He staggers, his legs giving out. He hits the wall hard, rattling the framed corkboard hanging beside the door, then slides down it. He folds, collapsed into himself like a puppet with its strings cut.

Still, for one horrible, brutal second, Taylor expected him to get back up. Laugh and call her stupid. To her relief, he doesn’t.

The man who abused her for ten years sat there against the wall, eyes wide and glassy. Blood seeped between his fingers and pooled dark across the hardwood.

Taylor’s grip loosened, letting the fun slip from her fingers and hit the floor. The sound of it made her flinch.

Everything after that came in pieces. Her knees gave out, then the scream. She didn’t realize it was coming form her until her throat burned raw.

She’d crawled for the phone she’d left charging on the desk, nearly dropping it twice before she managed to unlock it. Her fingers were flick; she didn’t know with what.

The local dispatch center answered on the second ring. “911, what’s the address of the emergency?”

Taylor felt like she couldn’t breath. “I—I…” Her voice cracked and words felt like they tangled themselves in her mouth. “My husband…he had a knife. He was going to—”

“Ma’am, I need you to slow down.” The operator’s voice on the other end of the line was soft and reassuring.

“There’s blood,” Taylor choked out. “Oh my God, there’s so much blood.”

She heard herself crying and trying to explain. She heard a stranger’s voice on the other end telling her to put the weapon down, step back, and stay on the line. Tell them if he’s breathing.

Taylor looked up. It startled her the way Andrew was still staring at her. He wasn’t moving, just staring. His open opened slightly, like he wanted to say something but nothing came out.

Everything was a blur after that.

The sirens came later. Red and blue lights flashed through the front windows. The sound of heavy boots made their way through the house to stand beside her.

There were so many voices. One asked her questions. One gave her orders. Someone else put hands on her shoulders. Another took the phone from her. A man kicked the gun away. A female officer rolled Andrew onto his back and shouted for a medic. When the medic arrived, his face said what everyone else already knew.

It was too late.

Taylor was led into the kitchen in a daze where the half-finished dinner still sat on the table. Both of their plates, the wine bottle sitting uncorked beside two glasses. One is spilled, the other untouched.

An officer, one that seemed around Taylor’s age, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Though, she wasn’t cold. Or maybe she was. She couldn’t tell.

“Ma’am,” he said carefully, crouching to meet her eye level, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Taylor stared past him at the smear of red still drying across the floorboards near the table. Was it win? Blood? It didn’t matter—it all looked the same now.

“He was going to kill me,” she whispered.