His eyes blank out for a second, and I shuffle backwards, not wanting to be pinned by his burly weight when he keels over in about ten seconds.

“Who are you?” he splutters, holding his chest.

I smile as a feeling of supreme triumph washes over me. I kneel in front of him and lean close to his ear, my breath on his skin the last thing he will ever feel. “My name is Juliette,” I whisper, “and you just got fucked, Chad.”

I climb to my feet and continue to watch as he struggles.

“You bitch,” he spits, his face turning red. He keels over, his shoulder hitting the floor with a solid thwack.

 It takes forever for him to die.

 When he is good and dead, I smile. Because it feels good. It feels even better than I thought it would.

 One motherfucker down. Six to go. I wipe my fingerprints off the can, place it back on the bench, and step over Chad’s motionless body. Making my way out of the garage with the tenacity of a stealthy cat, I head to the roof unseen. Along the way, I grab a beer from the fridge and knock the lid against the timber bench to pry it loose. Taking the stairs quickly and quietly, I burst onto the roof. Jase is sitting in a beanbag he has dug up from somewhere, watching the sun set over Venice Beach. I stand behind him, admiring the view.

“Hey,” he says. “I just came out to watch the sunset before I go to work.”

I sit cross-legged on the enormous beanbag beside him, sinking into the beans, my body so tired, so spent.

“You even brought me a beer,” he jokes, gesturing to my full Corona. I smile and take a sip, holding it in front of him. “Here,” I say. “I only wanted a taste.”

His hand brushes mine as he takes the bottle from me, and I wait a second too long before I let go. Our eyes lock together, a dark worry settling over his features as he, too, must feel the spark that alights between us.

“Samantha–” he says.

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

He frowns and takes a swig of beer. “Don’t what?”

I stare at my hands. “Don’t say it.”

He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

I put my hand back over his, both of us gripping the bottle. “I just do,” I reply, squeezing his hand tight.

I think about how much I love him, how much I have always loved him, and it is enough to make me sob. But I don’t. I can’t.

 I’m not finished yet.

 There are still so many things I have to do.