Blood thundered through his veins. The impossible onslaught of terror had smashed his world to pieces.

  The mess of blood was beginning to clot all over his face.

  Murder scene.

  That’s what it had looked like, hadn’t it?

  Playing back those last few gruesome moments in his mind, he could see with crystal clarity how the scene would have played out through the eyes of the officers who had burst into the room.

  Patrick himself could scarcely believe what had just happened. The madness of it was beyond comprehension. Trying to explain it to someone else, and to have them believe it…

  The scream that had been building inside of him could no longer be contained. It flowed like a river from deep within, shaking his whole body as it came pouring out of him until his throat was raw.

  And then it ended. Some of the pressure that had been building inside of him was suddenly released and finally had space for thought.

  The best he could do was to postpone his capture. To give himself some time to figure out what the hell was going on. There was little chance the answers could buy his freedom, but they might offer him some peace from the disorienting spiral his life had fallen into.

  The clock on his dashboard read 3:26.

  The store was only 10 minutes away, and Joe would be dealing with a mid-afternoon rush right about now, wondering where Patrick was and nervously awaiting any news about the stolen Cross.

  He looked at his face in the mirror and saw a nightmare staring back at him.

  There was no way he could go there like this.

  His only option was to go back home and run the risk that the police would be waiting.

  There would be confusion back at Potrevski’s house. It would take time for them to piece together enough information to figure out who he was. He hoped.

  But as soon as word got to Detective Johansen that a man fitting Patrick’s description had been seen fleeing the scene, he would quickly put two and two together. It was just a matter of time.

  He drove back home as fast as he dared. The empty roads that had seemed so unusual were now a blessing. But still, he sat low in the seat the whole time, trying to hide the horror show that covered him.

  The remnants of shattered glass in the window were a problem. At the first set of lights, he reached over and knocked out the remaining pieces loose. When he was done, it just looked as though he was driving with the window open.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The air conditioner was now useless. The heat invaded the car with a visceral presence, thick and oppressive. The sticky blood quickly began to harden and itch.

  The clock in his head was ticking in time to the one on the dashboard. When he pulled into the driveway, thirteen minutes had passed.

  Once inside, he headed straight for the bathroom.

  Looking at himself in the mirror was like looking at a nightmare. His skin was stained with blood. Chunky clotted balls clung to his hair.

  He stepped into the shower fully clothed and stripped with the water running. As he undressed, the clotted blood acted like glue between his skin and his clothes. He had to peel the clothes off his body.

  Red water flowed off his body and down the drain. Thick clots of blood had to be worked out of his hair individually.

  The feel of the slimy clots between his fingers as he worked them out from tangled strands of hair was enough to push him over the edge.

  He arched over in the shower, one hand resting against the wall for support as he threw up. He hadn’t thought there was anything left in him after throwing up in Potrevski’s garden. But he was wrong. Again and again he heaved, bringing up bile and chunks of food.

  His vomit mixed with the streams of blood on the shower floor. Pieces of half-digested food quickly clogged the drain, and watered-down blood began to fill the shallow shower basin. To stop it spilling onto the bathroom floor, he had to get down on his hands and knees and push the chunks through the drain cover.

  After he cleared the blockage, he slumped down on the shower floor and let the water wash over him.

  Without much more effort from him, the shower did its work, washing away the blood until the water ran clean.

  He pulled himself to his feet, running his hands over his body one last time, to shake loose any remaining clusters of blood, then stepped from the shower.

  Time was ticking away. Every minute that passed was an invitation to arrest. He had to get out of there as soon as possible.

  He had to get out of the house.

  He dressed, went to the kitchen, and grabbed some heavy-duty bin liners. He returned to the bathroom and picked up the blood-drenched clothes off the shower floor and double-bagged them.

  He dropped them at the front door as he returned to the kitchen. He filled the cat bowl with as much food as he could, sure that he would never be back to feed her again.

  He gave her enough food to last for at least the next 48 hours, then grabbed the plastic bags containing the bloody clothes and walked out the door.

  He did a quick walk around the car to inspect the bullet holes.

  From a few feet back, the holes looked like those stupid bullet-hole stickers that he had always hated.

  He got in, threw the bag of bloody clothes onto the back seat, then backed out of the driveway.

  On the highway, he spotted a police cruiser heading in the opposite direction, but they passed by without a look.

  He made a detour into the industrial complex beyond the highway.

  Huge grey concrete factories lined the roads for about a square kilometre. He drove up and down the streets, searching.

  He spotted an industrial bin that was largely hidden from view by a large bush.

  He stepped out and walked to the back of the car, opened the door and grabbed the bag. He walked over to the bin, lifted the lid and threw the bag inside.

  He walked back to the car, resisting the urge to look around like a guilty man.

  He was reaching for the door handle when a white Mercedes accelerated around the corner, its tyres screeching around the turn. The engine surged, and he thought it was going to speed past, but the driver slammed on the brakes and angled the car towards the curb directly in front of the Toyota.