The Murder House Chapter 19

Think. I had to think.

The recording was running. If nothing else, if he killed me, at least they'd have his confession.

But I wasn't ready to die. Not like Emma.

I looked around the dark apartment. I'd prepared for this. Three years of preparation.

The torture devices were gone, thrown at the fake Marcus—at David. But the kitchen...

"I'll open the door," I called out.

Silence.

"But I need a minute. I need to... I need to prepare myself."

"No games, Maya."

"No games. I promise. Just... let me say goodbye to my parents. One text. That's all I'm asking."

Another pause.

"Two minutes."

I crawled into the kitchen, feeling my way in the darkness. The massive pot I'd bought—for him, always for him—sat on the stove.

But beside it, something better.

The propane camping stove I'd purchased last month. Battery-operated ignition.

And underneath the sink: paint thinner. Cooking oil. Every flammable liquid I'd stockpiled for my various revenge fantasies.

My hands found the kitchen knife block by memory.

The plan formed in seconds.

I opened the propane valve slowly—silent. Struck the ignition. Blue flame bloomed in the darkness.

Working fast, I emptied bottle after bottle of oil and chemicals into the pot. The mixture began heating immediately, vapor rising.

From the living room, I grabbed the plastic sheeting—the same kind Emma had died on. I'd saved it, preserved it like a relic.

Spread it just inside the doorway.

The vapors from the kitchen were already making me lightheaded. I soaked a dishcloth, held it over my nose and mouth.

"Time's up, Maya."

"I'm coming," I called.

I positioned myself. Gripped the largest kitchen knife. Said a prayer to Emma.

"I'm unlocking it now."

My fingers shook on the deadbolt.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The door exploded inward before I could even step back.

David Chen stood in the hallway—early thirties, handsome in a bland corporate way, black raincoat dripping. In his hand, a hunting knife that matched mine.

He smiled.

"Hello, Maya."

Then his eyes watered. The chemical vapors hit him.

"What—"

I didn't give him time to finish. I jerked the pot off the stove with towel-wrapped hands and threw.

Boiling oil and chemicals splashed across his face and chest.

His scream could have woken the dead.

He stumbled backward, and I ran forward—not away, toward—and shoved with everything I had.

David's feet hit the plastic sheeting. Slipped.

He went down hard, knife skittering away.

I kicked it down the hallway, then jumped on him, my knife pressing against his throat.

"You made her suffer," I hissed. "For six months you dated her. She trusted you. And you made her suffer."

He was still screaming, clawing at his burned face.

"Please—please—I'm sorry—"

"You're sorry NOW?" The blade pressed harder. "You weren't sorry when you cut her fifty-six times. Weren't sorry when you boiled her head. Weren't sorry when you cooked her!"

Blood welled under the knife edge.

Do it. Just do it.

Emma's voice in my head: Don't become him.

"Maya?" A voice from behind. Weak, female.

I turned my head slightly. The woman from across the hall stood in her doorway, holding her son, both alive and terrified.

Witnessing.

Red and blue lights suddenly strobed through the hallway windows. Sirens.

"POLICE! FREEZE!"

Officer Carter and three other cops burst from the stairwell, guns drawn, flashlights cutting through the dark.

"Put down the knife! Both of you, NOW!"

I looked down at David Chen, his face a ruin of burns and blood.

"Live," I said quietly. "Live and spend the rest of your miserable life in a cage. Death would be too easy."

I dropped the knife and raised my hands.