I continue to watch Elijah as he paces the length of the small room. For twenty minutes, he’s been pacing and muttering nonsensical things under his breath.

My earlier attempts at calming him seemed to have backfired. I have to play my cards right. There are a gun and a madman involved: I can’t afford to take any risks. And while I have years of binge-watching CSI and Criminal Minds to fall back on, even I have to admit that I’m still woefully unprepared to deal with a psycho stalker intent on killing me. So I need to get back to basics. And if I know men, there is one thing that universally throws them off their game: a crying woman.

As I sit in the chair, I force memories of Chumba, my childhood cat that died from feline cancer, to the surface. I had loved that cat. Every night, Chumba would crawl under the covers with me and sleep between my legs. More dog than cat, Chumba had been one of my best friends growing up. He had been the keeper of all my secrets. Just the memory of him, curled up at my side, is enough to start the waterworks. I start off with soft crying before transitioning to a full-body sob that finally catches Elijah’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” Elijah asks, a worried expression on his face.

I inhale a deep breath between sobs. “I’m just so upset. Drizzle treated me so badly, and you were one of the only people who was nice to me, and now you’re so mad at me, and I feel like everybody just hates me!”

I inwardly cringe: I went a bit overboard. But as I sneak a peek to Elijah through my lashes, I can see that he’s actually buying it. His hard face softens as he takes a few steps closer to me

“I don’t hate you, Daphni. I could never hate you,” he says.

I throw in a hiccup for good measure and bat my eyelashes as I look up to him. “Are you sure?”

Elijah nods furiously and bends down in front of me. “I have a plan, Daphni,” he declares, his blue eyes widening with excitement.

I force a smile to my face as I feel my blood freeze. “What’s your plan, Elijah?”

He locks his wild eyes on mine. “They’ll never let us be together in this world. So I’m going to make it so that we can be together in the next world. Then no one can tear us apart.”

I feel every hair on my body raise. “What are you going to do, Elijah?” I ask, doing my best to hide the shakiness and fear in my voice.

He smiles, a large, toothy, deranged smile. “I promise it won’t hurt, Daphni.”

I shudder as I realize what he means: the psycho is going to kill me. And while buying some time and winning him over seemed like a good initial plan, my time is out. I need to make my move now.

But I’m scared. Terrified. If I make one mistake, it’s all over.

But then again, what’s my alternative? Sit around and hope that someone stumbles by and finds me in the next five minutes? MacArthurs house is secluded and set back from the road. No one will hear me scream. The police have no leads, and Elijah has been able to avoid leaving any DNA or fingerprints until now, so I doubt he would have slipped up when he came to kidnap me. And if he has MacArthur on his team, then there is no way that he will ever get caught. MacArthur probably has paid off someone for his alibi and if they even catch my body, he’ll just pin the whole thing on Elijah.

And it’s right at this moment that I realize with absolute certainty that if I want to survive this, I am going to need to save myself. There is not going to be anyone riding in on a white horse to whisk me away. This isn’t a fairytale, and there isn’t a prince coming to save me. And most importantly, I am not a damsel in fucking distress. And as that thought takes hold of me, I identify a new emotion crop up within me. Anger.

Pure, unadulterated anger. At MacArthur, for having abused me and taken away the pride and respect I had for myself and putting me into this goddamn situation a second time. At my mother, for not protecting me and for so easily dismissing my pain. At Drizzle, and all the men who took advantage of me, plying me with liquor and pills and taking me, half-conscious, to their beds. Anger at myself, for sabotaging myself and making myself believe that I deserved to be mistreated and abused because it was the only way I knew how to be treated. And anger at Elijah, for thinking that he could do this to me. I was done. I wasn’t a victim. I was a survivor. And I was going to survive this.

Without thinking, I turn to Elijah and force a serene smile to my face. “Elijah, before we go, can I give you a kiss?”

He looks at me, the skepticism on his face obvious. I keep my own expression hopeful, doing my best not to reveal all the disgust roiling inside of me at the thought of having to touch him again.

I push back all my disgust and keep my eyes locked on his as I suck in my bottom lip. The bastard falls for it, tucking the gun back into the waistband of his pants before he tentatively takes one small step toward me.

I gesture for him to come closer, and he inches toward me, still crouched in front of me. Our faces are level, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him toward me. Thinking that I’m pulling him in for a kiss, Elijah eagerly obliges. I lower my face to his and push back the repulsion I feel when our lips connect. Forcing back the nausea rolling through me at the contact and the feel of his dry, chapped lips on mine, I moan, distracting him and sending him into a hurried frenzy. He eagerly skims his hands down and awkwardly grips my waist as I mimic his touch and lower my hands until I feel the cold metal gun tucked into his waistband.

Distracting him with the kiss, I part my lips, letting his tongue slip into my mouth, and when I feel it enter, I bite down hard at the same time as I pull the gun out of his waistband.

He shrieks as he pulls his face away and grabs my wrist. I grab onto the gun, refusing to let it go. I squirm out of his clutch, but the sudden movements make the room spin. My head is still recovering from the earlier blow, and he’s so much stronger than me. I force myself to remember everything Liam taught me during the hours he would spend training me on how to defend myself. Aim for the groin or the eyes, Daphni. You’re small, but that makes you quicker.

I kick my leg out, hitting Elijah right in his groin. The hit sends him barreling forward but his hand is still wrapped around my wrist, not allowing me enough distance to get away and fire the gun. I still refuse to let go, knowing that if I do, it’s over. Still, I’m at a disadvantage with my head wound and despite his thin frame, Elijah is a lot stronger than I had realized.

He swings my wrist, trying to dislodge the gun from my grip. Twisting me underneath him, he head-butts my forehead, and suddenly everything temporarily goes dark as I fall back. I hear a loud clang as the gun is flung out of my hands and lands on the tiled floor. Underneath me, I feel the cold, hard ground as Elijah’s body lands on mine. As we struggle, my head slams to the floor, and I keep fading in and out of blackness.

Is this it? Is this the moment I die?

At those thoughts, an image of Roman instantly appears. I want to see him again. I want to see Gabby, and Lawrence, and Isabel and Liam. I’m not done yet. The faces of my family inspire me, and with a loud grunt, I push Elijah off me.

I force my eyes open and scan the room, looking for the gun. It’s a few feet away and I dive for it, ignoring the dizziness and blinding pain. When I feel the cool metal in my hand, I turn and fire off a single shot. My eyes are pinched closed and all I can hear following the ringing of the gunshot is a groan and a loud thump. My head is killing me but when I open my eyes, I see Elijah, slumped in a pile on the floor. A growing puddle of crimson red circles him. It’s then that I realize he’s been shot. I shot him.

The realization, combined with the throbbing pain in my head, is too much for me to take and I fall forward, my body heaving as I vomit on the floor. Looking down at the gun still in my hands, I start to shake. I killed him. I killed somebody.

Despite the pain, I crawl toward the nearest wall, pressing back against it to slide up to a standing position.

I need to find a phone. I need to call the police and get the hell out of here. But before I can do that, the door leading to the backyard opens. I grip the gun in my hands as I watch MacArthur cautiously step back into the house. He hasn’t yet seen Elijah’s body on the floor or me leaning against the wall. I have the element of surprise and I intend to take full advantage.

“God damn, Elijah. Took you long enough. Where the hell are you? We need to get this show on the road and move the body.”

His words send a cold shiver through me. That fucker. He had been casually waiting outside for Elijah to kill me. How callous could he be?

“Sorry to disappoint you, MacArthur, but you’re going to be burying a different body today.”

I wish I could capture the expression on MacArthur’s face when he swivels his head and first sees me. The simultaneous crash of disbelief mixed with fear. I want to photograph it, hang it on my wall and look at it every day. Because it’s the moment I finally realize what a scared piece of shit MacArthur is and how little power he holds over me now.

When I stand, the gun in my hand, MacArthur transforms before me from the monster of my nightmares into a pathetic, weak little man. I have the power. I always had the power and fuck him for making me believe that I didn’t.

I point the gun at him, the pain in my head dissipating, feeding off his fearful energy, and gesture to the burgundy velvet couch. “Sit.”

He doesn’t move and I can read the range of emotions and thoughts running through his head. I know he’ll try to run. Fuck that. When he still doesn’t move, I fire one warning shot to the left of him, shooting out a glass window.

When the window shatters, sending shards of glass everywhere, MacArthur’s hands rise to his ears and he clutches them as he falls down to his knees. Pathetic.

“Get on the couch. Now,” I order again.

MacArthur shakily rises to his feet and stumbles to the couch. I take my time walking toward him, keeping my gun leveled at his head. I stand in front of him, with nothing but Elijah’s still-warm body lying between us. It’s a morbid, disgusting scene. I hate MacArthur for putting me in this position. I hate him for constantly making me the victim. But today it’s all changed. The tables have turned.

I carefully sit down in the seat across MacArthur. The one he had occupied while I had laid on the couch, my hands bound and my face shoved into the linen pillow. The couch that served as the backdrop of my worst nightmares.

“Daphni, dear, let’s just talk about –”

“Shut up!” I shout, cutting him off. “You don’t get to speak to me.”

“Daphni, you’re being irrational. You need to put down the gun.”

“Stop!” I shout again, but he continues to speak, his voice growing louder and bolder.

He rises from the couch, his hands held up defensively in front of his chest. “You need to calm down. You’re acting like an insolent –”

“Enough!” I scream as I squeeze my eyes closed and my finger squeezes the trigger. A deafening popping sound swallows all the noise in the room and everything is silent.

I look down at MacArthur, my breath hitching in my throat. His eyes are wide as he looks at me. His hands grip his side as a stain of blood spreads through across his crisp white shirt. He falls back against the couch. “You fucking shot me,” he says, his tone laced in disbelief and rage.

When I don’t respond, he pushes up from the couch, his hand still on his side as he stalks toward me. His eyes are wild, filled with dark rage as he quickly closes the distance between us. “You fucking psychotic bitch.”

Paralyzed with fear, I freeze in my seat until he’s in front of me. He lunges toward me and I scramble away, the gun flying out of my hands and sliding underneath the couch. Instead of going for the gun, MacArthur turns his attention to me.

“You’re dead,” he says, his icy, cold voice sending a sliver of fear rushing through me.

His hands leave his side to come and wrap around my neck. I try to scramble away, but he’s too quick. I feel sticky fingers envelop my neck, pressing into the flesh of my neck. My breaths come out in shallow pants and I lift my hands to claw at his face. He presses harder and my world goes black for the briefest of seconds.

“Just fucking quit,” he pants out as he throws me to the ground, his body covering mine.

Never, I think. And with his body over mine, I shove my knee as hard as I can into his groin. He lets out an animalistic cry as his fingers leave my neck. I scramble away, my arms flailing around me. I feel cold metal beneath my fingers and I turn quickly to look. A floor lamp.

I grab it, pulling it violently away from the wall plug and yield it in front of me. MacArthur laughs, a hollow and bitter sound, as he looks at me.

“You’re an idiot. You think you’re going to hurt me with that?”

I wave it at him, warning him to stay away. He stalks toward me, a menacing look in his eyes. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he says as he lunges toward me.

Instinct guides me and I lift the lamp, bringing it down to crash down against MacArthur’s head. The blow sends him stumbling backwards, a curse on his lips.

“You fucking—”

I strike again. This time, he falls to the floor. He lands on his back as his hands move up from his side to cradle his head. I stand over him, still yielding the lamp in my hands.

When he sees my shadow cross over him, he peels his bloody fingers away from his eyes. Shaking his head, he narrows his beady eyes at me. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I shake my head. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

He laughs. “You’re a puppet, Daphni. Don’t forget who’s pulling your strings.”

I lift the lamp over my head, ready to strike another blow. MacArthur instinctively cringes, covering his face with his red-stained fingers. He looks so pathetic and weak on the ground beneath me as a shudder runs through his body.

In this moment, I finally feel powerful. I hate that it had to take killing one man and contemplating killing another to finally bring me to this point. I hate how MacArthur twisted and manipulated me. He was right: I was his puppet. But I am done. It’s over.

“I’m ending this now, MacArthur,” I say, my voice devoid of any emotion. “After today, you will be nothing but a bad dream.”

My words send another shiver of fear through him. I am done. I am done being scared of this man. I am doing being scared and angry at the world. I don’t want to carry this rage in me anymore. I want to be happy again, to be loved and to love in return. Holding onto my hatred of MacArthur won’t let me do that. I need to end this.

I keep my eyes locked on him as I push the couch backward. When I spot the gun, I pick it up and hold it in my hands. Tossing the lamp on the floor, I tuck the gun into the waistband of my shorts.

“Remember my words, MacArthur. You don’t exist for me anymore. I want you to remember my face when I send you to jail. I want my face to be the last thing you see every night before you fall asleep, cold and alone in whatever godforsaken prison they send you to. I want you to remember that I could have killed you today, but I chose not to. Because I am done with you. And I am not going to let you hurt me, or anybody else, ever again. Your life is over, MacArthur. And I want you to remember that I am the one who ended it.”

And with that, I slide open the glass door overlooking the backyard and step outside. As the moon casts its reflection over the placid pool, the pile of shattered glass catches the light from the starry-cast night. The entire scene contrasts so starkly with the chaos inside.

I continue walking up the path and let myself out of the back gate. As I walk down the long driveway, I finally feel a weight lift off my shoulders. It’s done. I’m free.