71

Dark, sticky droplets dot the floor, trailing toward the hallway. My heart pounds, each step making the sight more real. I follow the trail, the crimson stain smeared across the wood, pooling in the center of the room, a red mess that stands out against the cold, clean space. My stomach drops when I see Gareth’s bloody knife lying on the floor. Moka steps in the blood, her paws leaving prints wherever she goes. She meows softly, bumping against me, but I’m shaking. He hurt himself. Was that slashing the sound of his knife in his own fucking skin? I’ve never seen him do that, and I studied his body—all of it. There was no sign of self-harm. I know he bit his finger until it bled a couple of times, but I didn’t think any more of it. I should have. I really should’ve considered he could be self-destructive. That’s a lot of blood. On the counter, the stool, the floor. Fucking fuck! I rush to the bedroom, but I know he’s not there even before I search. Sure enough, there’s no trace of him.