Sinister

"What do you want?" I demanded angrily, my voice shaking.

"I told you." Scott frowned, his eyes narrowing. "You have to die, Charlotte. It's only fair since my death was your fault. When you're finally exposed—and I will make sure that you are—you will be branded a murderer. Again. But this time, everyone will know what you are capable of."

"You're dead," I whispered.

Cruel laughter filled the air. "You keep saying that like it matters. It doesn't mean that I'm not here—that you don't feel guilt over what you've done—and I'm the result."

Scott's fingers wrapped around my chin.

All I could smell was rot, and my stomach churned unpleasantly.

I pulled away from him and walked over to my desk, staring down at the gun, its metal gleaming under the lights.

"Use it," he hissed.

I pressed my hands into the wood. "I'm sorry I did this to you. I am. I had to do it, Scott. I didn't have a choice."

"But you did." His voice was cruel. "You could have let me live. I would have kept your secret."

"I couldn't take that chance," I said. "I had to kill you."

"Detective, are you okay?"

I blinked, and turned to face an empty room, with someone standing in the doorway.