Hatred burned her insides as Bartholomew clung to life. “You’ve made a mistake. He will never forgive you for this,” he choked out, knife still embedded into his heart. “Tell him the truth, tell him you killed me,” he said. “I dare you.”

Tears fell down her face, falling into her lap and mixing with the droplets of blood that had splattered onto her legs from when she had stabbed Bartholomew.

“You’ve killed me twice now,” Bartholomew said.

“No,” she said quietly with a definitiveness she didn’t feel. “This is the first time I’ve killed you.” Unspoken was the defensive ‘it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t driving the car. I didn’t put you in the coma.’ The very act of sayin...

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