His fingers shake, even after he's pulled the small plastic bottle from her pocket.
Maeve's head rolls to the side, as he roughly tears away her coat, hoping to find another.
Where is it?
Where the fuck is it?
His hands are coated in blood, but he can't find it in him to care.
Not when his stomach is clenching, and definitely not when his eyes are hazy with tears.
Maeve Anderson had promised him two.
She'd fucking promised him.
Opening the bottle in his hand, he tucks a small tablet under his tongue, sighing in relief.
Eliah crawls away from the dead girl, slumping against a nearby tree, head drooping lazily, as he scratches roughly at the back of his wrist.
He smiles.
She is dead.
Eliah presses another tablet to his lips, ignoring the hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble from his throat.
Maeve fucking Anderson is dead.
And he'd killed her.
It hadn't been hard, he thinks, gaze drifting to the long serrated knife that sits half buried in the soil.
In fact, it had been almost disappointingly uneventful.
Although, he would have to wipe the knife clean, and dump it in the river.
The boy shrugs, dreamily rattling the brown bottle clenched in his palm.
No-one would ever know.
After all, Finton Creek tastes like blood.
YOU ARE READING
Down By The River
Misteri / Thriller... They say Finton Creek hides secrets in its murky waters. Blood washes away, but the taste never leaves. ...
