The Villain

by Shen, L. J.

  The memory of my visit to Colin Byrne stirred something violent in me.

  “Veitch wanted to whore out his wife all by himself before he fucked off. He wanted to kidnap her and give her to me.”

  I remembered his words, verbatim.

  I’d never wanted to kill a person more than I had wanted to put a bullet in Paxton Veitch’s skull.

  All I needed to do was walk inside the house and tell her.

  It was that simple.

  But I knew it’d hurt her.

  Break her spirit.

  Show her that the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with wanted to sell her.

  It was a terrible time to grow a conscience.

  I turned around, walked back to my car, and called Sam.

  “Give me Paxton’s address.”

  I wasn’t going to break Persephone.

  But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let the real villain get the girl.

  Paxton Veitch’s temporary residence was nothing more than a shack in the back room of an illegal poker joint in Southie. Judging by the exterior of the decaying two-story building, he was probably sleeping in a cot made solely of garbage, pubic hair, and STDs.

  Rather than announce my arrival with a knock, I kicked the flimsy screen door down, barging in.

  Three round tables full of men with oil and dirt stains on their faces looked up at me, their eyes snapping off their cards.

  “Paxton Veitch,” I grumbled. No other words were necessary.

  Silence rang in the room.

  I knew dangling my sharp suit and expensive haircut in front of them was inviting trouble, but I welcomed it. Sighing, I took out my wallet and raised a hundred-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers, waving it around.

  “I’ll ask again, where’s Paxton Veitch?”

  This time, the men shifted in their seats, glancing at each other.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, we don’t even know him, why are we protecting him? He’s in the back room!” one of them piped up, banging his cards over the table. “Take the stairs up. His is the second door on the left.”

  I dropped the bill to the floor, proceeding as a few men rushed to the floor, fighting for the money.

  When I got to the door I was looking for, I took a few breaths to calm myself down. I’d imagined going head-to-head with the bastard longer than I’d like to admit. Before Persephone and I were on speaking terms.

  The memory of her kissing him at Hunter and Sailor’s wedding still made my blood boil.

  I’d walked along the hedge garden, inwardly convincing myself I wasn’t a complete moron for rejecting the Penrose girl I wanted so much. The topiary assaulted my eyesight. A tacky mixture of angels, animals, and heart shapes. The sound of panting made me slow next to a cloud-shaped shrub.

  “Oh, Paxton,” a throaty, sweet voice had moaned.

  My blood ran cold.

  I took a step aside, pretending to read a sign explaining the design of the garden. From my position, I could see strands of white-blond hair woven in the shrubs, a delicate, snowy neck extended, and a male mouth peppering kisses all over it.

  “God, you’re so fucking sweet. What’s your name again?”

  “Persephone.”

  “Persy-phone-ay.” His hands were everywhere as he mispronounced her name. “What does it mean?”

  I’d strained my neck, developing perverse satisfaction in making myself watch her in another man’s arms after snubbing her. His head trailed down her breasts, disappearing from my line of vision. She was panting hard and fast.

  Take a good look at what you did. She is in someone else’s arms now.

  Someone normal.

  Who deserves her.

  Now, Paxton’s door taunted me.

  I pushed it open, unbothered about stomping into his territory unannounced. He did that twice to me. It was time he got a taste of his own medicine.

  He was in the room, having an intense phone conversation, standing in front of a small, dirty window with his back to me.

  “You think I’m not trying? It’s not as easy as I thought. She’s changed, man. Probably all that dough and gold-plated cock.” He snickered, snorting. “I’m not gonna hurt her. I still love Persy, you know. She’s always been my girl. I just want in with her ass, so I can get my way, too. There’s too much money in that pot for me not to get my share.”

  At least now I knew she hadn’t fucked him yesterday.

  Silver linings and all that jazz.

  I grabbed the phone from behind him and killed the call, tossing the device onto his bed. He whipped his head around, his mouth hanging open.

  “Shi—”

  I shoved him toward a wooden desk pushed against the wall, shutting him up.

  He sagged onto it, plopping down.

  “Time for a little talk, Veitch.”

  “You’re the Fitzpatrick guy.” His brows furrowed. “The dude she married.”

  “And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

  We examined each other. He was a good-looking kid. Light hair, soft features. Clad in a broken-in leather jacket and saggy jeans that made it look like he needed his diaper changed.

  Paxton folded his arms over his chest.

  “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “If you didn’t want trouble, you wouldn’t chase it across the planet. Do you really think I’d let you touch what’s mine?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Persy and I had a good thing going. I fucked up, but she’s a good girl. She could still forgive me.”

  That meant she hadn’t yet. My heart slowed for the first time since I saw him enter her apartment. I tugged at the leather gloves in my back pocket, slapping them over my thigh and putting them on. His throat bobbed with a swallow. Good. He needed to know I wasn’t above getting down and dirty to get my point across.

  “Don’t mistake Persephone’s goodness with naiveté,” I warned. “She is past forgiving you.”

  “You don’t know her like I do.” He shook his head.

  “What I do know is that you tried to pay Byrne with her as currency, which is why I’m here. Now, you’re going to listen carefully and follow my every instruction, and I will spare your miserable, pointless life. Veer off the lane I put you on, and I’ll make sure you slam into a ten-ton semi-trailer and feed whatever’s left of you to the hyenas. Are you following me so far?”

  He clutched the edges of the table behind him. I reached over, grabbing the gun I noticed was tucked in the back of his jeans, cocked it, and pushed the barrel against his forehead.

  “You’re going to write a ten-page letter to Persephone, in which you apologize profusely for being the shittiest husband in the history of civilization. In this letter, you will take the entire blame for the fallout of your marriage and excuse her from any wrongdoings. I will read and approve the letter before you send it. After you send it, you will pack a bag, drive to the airport, and buy a one-way ticket to Australia. Once there, you will drive to Perth, where you will settle down. Perth, in case you’re wondering, is the farthest point geographically from the US of A, and therefore exactly where I want you to be, at least until Virgin Galactic offers flights to Mars, to which I would be happy to relocate you. You will not, under any circumstances, contact my wife. You will not, under any circumstances, write, call, or meet her again. If I hear you as much as breathed in her direction, I will unleash my three-headed hounds on you—a Hades reference, in case it escaped your bird-sized brain—no matter where you are. I will make sure you experience the most painful death known to man. Tell me you understand.”

  I pressed the barrel harder to his forehead. Paxton groaned, closing his eyes, dripping sweat.

  “I understand.”

  “I will provide your flight ticket, accommodations, and a work permit. The rest is for you to deal with.”

  “I don’t…”

  “This is not a conversation.” I held up my free hand. “
This is me feeling uncharacteristically charitable and not blowing your brains out, mainly because blood makes my wife feel queasy.”

  He nodded again, gulping.

  “Forget she’s ever been a part of your life.”

  Another nod.

  “Oh, and Paxton?”

  I slid the gun down the bridge of his nose, tucking it into his mouth. His eyes widened, a drop of sweat trailing down the same path the barrel had made, exploding on his neck.

  “How’d you end up here? We both know you don’t have a penny to your name.”

  “Arruw Arrameeth,” he said around the barrel.

  “Andrew Arrowsmith?” I pulled the weapon from his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He found me in Mexico. Paid for my flight back here. Got me this apartment and told me to get my girl. Said she was in trouble. That you were hurting her. Good guy. Nothing like you.”

  Andrew knew Persephone and I had been estranged and tried to take advantage of it.

  I wiped away a stray tear that slipped from his eye using the gun. “That, I agree with. Do as I say, and nobody will get hurt. Other than Arrowsmith, but I suppose that’s not your problem, is it?”

  He shook his head.

  I emptied the gun of bullets, put them into my pocket, then threw the weapon onto the cot he’d used as a bed, next to his phone, walking away.

  “Have a nice life, Veitch.” I saluted with my back to him.

  He didn’t answer.

  He knew there wasn’t a chance of that ever happening.

  “My goodness, Tin, how did you get this boo-boo?” I leaned down, brushing a nasty, open wound on Tinder’s knee.

  We spent the day together, just the two of us. Joelle and Andrew attended a charity event and decided to only bring Tree, the “normal” child, along. The one who didn’t make any funny noises or made heads turn. Joelle looked guilty when she asked if I could tutor Tinder alone today. I knew the idea to leave him behind didn’t come from her. I couldn’t help but resent her for not fighting for her principles. For her son.

  If I could go against one of the most formidable men in Boston—a man I loved—why couldn’t she demand her boy be treated as his brother’s equal?

  I vowed to make it a memorable day for Tinder. A treat, rather than a punishment. We went to Sparrow Brennan’s high-end diner for breakfast, where we shoved pancakes and waffles down our throats, then lounged by Charles River, watching the clouds as I told him Greek mythology tales, just as Auntie Tilda used to do with me.

  Tinder chewed on the shark necklace I gave him, sniffing as he pointed at an almost identical injury on his other knee.

  “T-This one, too,” he stuttered.

  I kissed both knees better.

  “Let’s go to Walgreens and get super cool Band-Aids for them. What do you say?”

  “Y-Y-Yes! Maybe they’ll have Puppy Dog Pals.” His nose twitched. I slipped my hand in his. We walked past the green bannisters, kayaks, and pedal boats. The sun pounded on our faces.

  “So what happened?” I asked. “Did you fall off your bike? I hope you know it happens to everyone.”

  “No,” he answered quietly. “It wasn’t t-the bike.”

  “What was it, then?”

  The silence that followed was crammed with the thoughts teeming in my head. Like that weird letter I got from Paxton, that sounded nothing like Paxton, and his mirage-like disappearance, that happened as quickly as his reappearance.

  Or how my husband had been avoiding me the entire week, not only refusing to accept my house calls every time I dropped by, but also dodging my text messages. I was days away from showing up at his office and embarrassing us both. The only thing keeping me from doing so was I understood his need to be fully focused on the Green Living lawsuit against Royal Pipelines ahead of the trial.

  But I needed to tell him about Paxton. About Andrew Arrowsmith and my plan.

  “It was Daddy.”

  The words hit me in the chest, cracking it open and spilling a feeling I’d never felt before. Not even to Byrne. Or Kaminski. Or Paxton.

  Pure, consuming hatred.

  I stopped in the middle of the busy street. A woman walking a French bulldog bumped into us, making a cyclist who whizzed by swear. Ignoring them, I crouched to my knees, holding Tinder’s arms, my eyes leveling with his.

  “How did he do this to you?” I asked, in a voice I just barely managed to keep steady.

  Tinder looked down, drawing a circle with the tip of his shoe in the sand. He flinched, his movements jumpy.

  “I-I-I-I…” He tried, then stomped his foot and bit his tongue. “Oof! I can’t get the words out. N-N-No wonder he hates me.”

  “Tinder,” I whispered. He was having a tic attack. The first I’d witness him having. He recoiled in the same manner every few seconds, a repetitive movement, pinching his shoulders together and thumping his head. He couldn’t stop.

  “I’m not your father. I’m your friend. You’ve got all the time in the world to tell me what happened. I just want to know so I can help you. You are not in trouble.”

  I let him ride the tic out, taking a step back to allow him as much space as possible. The tics subsided after a few minutes, melting into small, familiar nose twitches. I scooped him in my arms, stopped at a street vendor, bought him apple juice and a soft pretzel, and sat him on a bench.

  “Tell me everything, Tin-Tin.”

  “He used a ruler.”

  Saying nothing, I waited for more while my heart looped around itself, rolling into a pile of painful knots.

  “He-He-He-He said that it works. He said he could c-c-cure me. Said he did it b-before. He told Mommy we will both be grateful when it-it was done and over with. He-he let me read the ABCs and then some n-n-numbers, and every time I stuttered or ha-ha-had a tic, he hit the metal ruler on my knees. He did it until I bled and M-M-Mommy told him she would call the police. I cried even though Mommy asked me no-no-not to.”

  Feeling like I, myself, was on the verge of an attack of sorts, I forced myself to keep my voice calm. There was no need to scare Tinder any more than he already was, but the violent urge to take him away from this family left me gasping for air.

  “Is this the first time your daddy has done this to you?”

  I couldn’t let go of the memory of Andrew shaking his son when the latter had trouble explaining himself.

  “No.” Tinder picked off the salt from his pretzel absentmindedly. “One time, after we came back from a party where I embarrassed him, he put my head in a si-si-si-sink full of water, in and out, in a-and out. He-He-He said that he would only stop if I stopped a-acting like a weirdo. Bu-but it worked because I stopped for a whole week.”

  I couldn’t blink.

  Swallow.

  Breathe.

  My world collapsed under the weight of the unspoken truth that landed on my feet, and suddenly, everything became crystal clear.

  I stepped onto a mine Cillian was trying to keep me well away from. Unraveling a secret that wasn’t for me to find.

  “Does your daddy treat your mommy and brother this way, too?”

  “No. He loves Tree and tells him he will send him to a fancy school in England. I th-think he loves Mommy, too. Even if sometimes he pushes her around. He never pushes too hard.” He paused, contemplating his words with a frown. “Other than the time he pushed her off the railings, and she fell downstairs. But she fell to the couch and was-wasn’t hurt. And she laughed about it so maybe it was a joke.”

  Or maybe she didn’t want her sons to know what a piece of work their dad was.

  I knew I had three problems to deal with.

  One was to keep Tinder safe.

  The second was to execute my plan as soon as today while I was still welcome in the Arrowsmith household.

  And the third was to confront my husband about what I’d suspected all along.

  I checked the time on my phone. It was two o’clock. The Arrowsmiths weren’t going to be hom
e until at least six. I had a key, though I was expected to pass the time out of the house with Tinder.

  They did trust me enough to give me a key in case of an emergency. After all, I was in their camp. Supposedly. Living separate lives from my husband and despising him as far as they were aware. The different bank accounts, the strategic complaining about Cillian, and letting them in on our separation had paid off.

  Now it was time to kick my plan into third gear.

  To save Tinder.

  To save Cillian.

  And who knew? Maybe even my marriage.

  I typed a quick text message to Sam Brennan. The first time I’d ever contacted him. I asked Sailor for his special access code shortly after I’d been hired by the Arrowsmiths, knowing there were some things I simply wasn’t equipped to do. Once the message had been sent, read, and replied to, I looked up and smiled at the little boy.

  “Hey, Tin-Tin, feel like baking some cookies at home while watching Peter Pan?”

  “S-Sure do!”

  I stuffed him into his booster in my Tesla with burning eyes and headed to the Arrowsmith residency for the very last time.

  The cookies were going to be almost as bad as the meal I’d tried to cook Cillian on our first “date.”

  I knew that when I tore open the ready-made mix without bothering to read the instructions. I dumped the powder into a bowl and grabbed the ingredients on the package hurriedly. Tinder protested when I didn’t take the time to do everything together with him—crack the eggs, measure the milk, count each drop of vanilla. I kept glancing at the overhead clock, waiting for the doorbell to ring, feeling like a criminal. I was a criminal. What I was about to do was against the law. But it wasn’t just about saving my husband’s company—it was also about Tinder.

  We scooped uneven balls onto a pan, shoving it into the oven before it reached the right temperature. Tinder’s irritation morphed into confusion. I’d always been the one person he could count on for patience.

  “W-What’s happening?” He frowned. “I-I don’t like doing everything quickly. Are you going anywhere?”

  “Not before I make sure you’re okay,” I muttered, frantically throwing a bag of popcorn into the microwave. I put Peter Pan on Disney Plus and sat Tin-Tin in front of the movie with his popcorn and juice.