13 Murders

Te Iubesc Foarte Mult

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TE IUBESC FOARTE MULT

Electra takes her time. I wait for her outside the bar, leaning against the iron doors, keeping a lookout for anything suspicious. The last thing we want is company. But I am prepared, I touch the bag at my side to remind myself. I can’t say I’m looking forward to using the gun. But waiting for impending trouble is getting tedious. I sigh in frustration, she could’ve at least unlocked her car for me, which is parked a couple of metres in front of me. It is the nicest car I have ever seen, and it perfectly suits Electra, with sharp-looking edges and glistening hub caps and then there is it’s colour- a glistening maraschino red.

Finally, Electra appears. She has changed into a tight-fitting black dress and a knee-length fur coat. Her French cigarette is still placed elegantly between her fingers and as she inhales the embers burn bright and light up her face, so that I can see her smirking. I roll my eyes at her, plunging my hands into my  pocketsand storming to her side.

“Is this really the time for a wardrobe change?” I ask bluntly. She stops puffing on the cigarette and narrows her eyes at me. I feel braver now that she’s on my side, but I know that she will take me down if she has too. She looks me up and down, scrutinizing my every breath, and smiles at me.

“Yes.” A long drag of smoke escapes her mouth. Then she looks behind her and tosses the cigarette in the direction of the doors. I am about to object, tell her that being so careless could start a fire or kill someone. But I don’t get the chance.

“Get in the car, we have thirty seconds.” She says. Her eyes are wild with excitement.

“Wh?-“

“Get in the car.” She says firmly, hurrying to the drivers seat. She is smiling like a kid in a candy store. It scares me, so I do as she says. I slide into the passenger seat swiftly and slam the door behind me. Inside, the maraschino beauty smells of lipstick and men’s cologne. The car jerks into motion, Electra stomping aggressively on the accelerator and yanking the handbrake off. The car speeds down the street. I look at Electra in disbelief, grabbing desperately to the sides of my seat. I open my mouth to ask what is going on but I don’t have enough time. Behind us, a large booming sound erupts.

My head snaps around just in time to see ‘Jazz Hands’ explode. The bar is blown to pieces. Rubble and furniture fly in all directions, everything is oozing oil and flames, car windows break from the heat and the sign that previously illuminated the street loses the battle against the flames, flickers and dies. A scream catches in my throat and I close my eyes and force myself to sit back against the chair. Shock pulses through me. My mind is numb. My knuckles are white from holding on to the seat. Jazz Hands disappears from sight as we turn a corner.

How did that happen? Why did that happen? It was Electra, wasn’t it? Why would she do that? Oh my god, she’s a psychopath. I’m alone with a psychopath.

 

Shit.

I stare at Electra with wide, enquiring eyes. She peers at me, smirking, gripping to the steering wheel tightly. She looks exhilarated. I feel terrified.

“I’ve been cleaning the floors with kerosene for weeks.” She grins. Her voice, however, is nonchalant. I splutter, hiding my face behind my hands and sinking down into my seat. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.