by B. B. Reid
“And if I am?”
“I won’t let you hurt her anymore.”
“How do you plan to stop me?”
Why did he care anyway? From the tale he had just spun, he pretty much just confirmed that he was a selfish bastard. Now he was determined to protect a total stranger. He didn’t need to know I had no intentions of hurting Monroe unless she gave me no choice. My desires have long since morphed into a different kind of need. The need to own.
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.” He continued to stare at me with a curious expression, and I could tell he wanted to say more. “Why her?”
“Why not?” I countered without missing a beat.
“She doesn’t seem like your type.”
She’s exactly my type. “You don’t know what my type is.”
“But you do have a type?”
“Fuck.” My patience was nonexistent. “Is this conversation going somewhere? I have somewhere to be.”
“Look,” he released a harsh breath. “Before you go… there’s something I meant to give you.” He walked back over to his desk, unlocked one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small stack of aged envelopes. He pushed them across his desk and nodded for me to take them.
“What is that?”
“Letters your mother wrote. None of them are addressed. I think it was how she kept a journal.”
“Keep it.”
“They aren’t meant for me. Take them,” he urged. “Get to know your mother, son.”
“I’ve been without her for eighteen years. I don’t need to know her.”
“Will you ever let go?”
I gritted my teeth to keep from spewing the hateful words I felt from my gut and the black hole some called a heart. “No. Keeping my hatred reminds me of what you’ve done. That’s something I never want to forget.”
* * *
She’s crying again. She was always crying.
If she didn’t stop, they would punish her, and when they grew tired of punishing her, they would make me kill her. That was the way it had been for the last two years. I was in charge of killing the prospects as they called us. It was my ‘reward’ for doing such a great job.
I hated my reward.
I hated killing.
But I could never let them see what it did to me. The hardest part of doing everything they told me was pretending to like it. Every day was colder than the last. At least that’s the way I felt inside.
I swung my legs over my dirty, hard cot, and when my feet hit the concrete, I used my toes to grip the cold ground for balance. It was late, and I was barely fed because the trainers decided to leave a little less for us to eat that night. Even though I was treated better than many of the other underperforming prospects, sometimes I still starved like the rest.
I made my way over to her cot. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see her cradling her arm to her chest.
I knew something bad happened to her. She’d only been here less than a week and had more beatings than I’ve had for the last eight years.
“You need to stop crying… now,” I ordered harshly when she continued to vocally shed her pain.
She flinched at the sound of my voice and scrambled up from her prone position to face me. Her cries only increased in volume as I approached, so I stopped and watched her watch me. She stared at me with fear apparent in her eyes, and even though I felt the same, I couldn’t share her feelings.
“P—please don’t hurt me.”
“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have waited and put the pillow over your head in your sleep.” Her eyes widened at my threat. “I will still hurt you though if you don’t stop crying.”
“I’m sorry. It just h—hurts so bad.”
I peered down at the dirty and bruised arm she held that was swollen and red. “What happened to your arm?”
“The big man with the red hair yanked it, and now I think I broke it.”
“Well, you’ve got to stop crying anyway.”
“I can’t. It hurts.”
“They’ll do much worse to you,” I whispered harshly. I knew why I was angry, but I didn’t know why I cared.
“Why are you so mean?” She pouted.
“Because I have to be.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t, I’ll die. I can’t be weak. I’ll never let them see. Never.”
She chewed on her lip as she watched me with a curious expression. “You don’t act right. Not like me.”
I didn’t bother to argue because she was right. I was one of the few whose life began here and even some of the others didn’t survive long. I picked up words and actions from the trainers and workers in the compound. Anything else, like toys and video games, I learned about from kids who brought them here from their homes. It was how I learned not all the parents were giving away their kids. Some of them were stolen.
Like her.
“My mommy says all kids are angels.”
“Your mother is wrong. I’m no angel.”
“Did your mommy and daddy lose you, too?”
“No… they left me here.” Frank always made it a point to remind us that our parents never wanted us so they left us here.
“Were you being bad?”
“You ask too many questions.” I looked over her arm even though I didn’t really know what I was looking for. I’ve seen plenty enough broken limbs to be able to tell that hers wasn’t broken. It was bruised and swollen, but that was it. She finally quieted down enough, and when the silence between us stretched too long, I turned on my heel and started back for my cot, but her next question stopped me.
“What’s your name?” she called out.
I made the mistake of turning back around. “I don’t have a name.”
“Everyone has a name.”
“I don’t. I don’t need one.”
“I could give you a name,” she offered, seemingly unfazed by my short answers.
“Why would you do that?”
“What else would I call you, silly?”
“Slave.”
She frowned her little face and stared at me hard. “I don’t like that name… Oh! I know! I’ll call you Keiran!”
“What?”
“Keiran is my brother’s name. I’m sure he won’t mind since you don’t have one.”
“Keiran,” I tested the name on my tongue.
She looked at me expectantly, and I figured she was waiting for me to ask hers. I didn’t.
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
“No.” I really didn’t want to know her name. Making friends would be a mistake. I knew just by looking at her she wouldn’t last. At least… that’s what Frank would say about the kids they often brought in. I was the only one who held any promise he would say. I wasn’t too sure if it was necessarily a good thing, but it kept me fed and from being beaten.
“It’s Lily.”
Pretty. Nice. Light. Those were the words that came to my head.
It had to go.
“No, it’s not. It’s slave.”
* * *
The conversation with my uncle was safely tucked away for me to dissect later. The plethora of information my uncle was suddenly inclined to divulge couldn’t have come at a worst time. At this stage, I was prepared to eradicate the past. How my past came to be was inconsequential. It was done, and I managed to live through it.
It was all that was supposed to matter.
Living and making sure I never became a slave to anyone or anything ever again.
That included the idea of love.
“You love your brother, Keiran… and you love me or else you wouldn’t care.”
No one will ever know it—least of all her, but she destroyed me that day in the hallway. Pushing her away was the hardest thing I ever had to do next to killing Lily and my mother.
When she left Six Forks… when she left me, I started to slowly crumble back into the black abyss I had crawled out from. I finally cracked and followed her
aunt to a town about an hour away. When she arrived at this picture perfect house with a white picket fence, carrying a suitcase as she went inside, I knew it was where Monroe was without ever seeing her.
4756 Perish Lane, Columbus City, Nevada was where she went when she finally ran from me.
Where she finally sought the chance to be happy.
It was how she found a way to save herself.
If I didn’t mean it before, the decision to let her go for good was made then.
Less than a week later, I was being arrested for murder.
The heavy bass of Slipknot’s psychotic tone filtered through the speakers as I drove down the darkening streets. I turned up the volume to an ear-splitting roar to drown out the past and one blue-eyed temptress. I needed to focus.
I had an impromptu stop to make before I could make my way to the hospital. One phone call to Quentin let me know he was in place at the hospital.
My destination wasn’t too far away so I was in place within minutes.
The community wasn’t as lavish as the estate Dash’s parents owned, but one my uncle could have easily afforded, but chose not to live in.
I’m not sure if I would ever feel the need to surround myself with wealth. It was money that led me to be the person I was today.
One man’s greed is another man’s tragedy.
Though my uncle, Keenan, nor I ever displayed or flaunted it, the status of our family’s old wealth was well known. We were estranged from whatever was left of our family.
I parked in a copse of trees near the community and jogged swift and quietly up the good doctor’s driveway. He was likely lying in his latest mistress’s bed paid for by him. There were too many drunken nights I had to hear about it with the hopes I would care.
I never thought her endless ramblings or mindless chatter would ever come in handy.
I was almost sad I wouldn’t get to spend the time needed to search for a soft spot.
Almost.
Dressed in all black, I moved carefully through the night. Being the community it was, no one would hesitate to call the police if I were spotted. I needed to avoid run-ins with them for as long as possible. Each time I even looked at Monroe, I felt the noose tighten.
The tree near one of the second-floor bedroom windows was my point of entry, and thanks to Anya, I knew it was the only way I was getting in without triggering the alarm system. She disabled it a long time ago thinking she could persuade me into sneaking up to her room. At the time, it was something I would never be caught doing just to get my rocks off.
Monroe, once again proved that theory wrong.
Scaling the tree and prying her window open was easy work. I was stepping into Anya’s bedroom in no time. I felt a little weird being in her bedroom, but I didn’t know if it was because it was a foreign place or because she was dead.
The mystery of who killed her and Trevor was still at large. As I took in Anya’s typical teenage girl’s bedroom, I realized I hadn’t spent nearly as much time needed to clear my name. Killing wasn’t something I was new to, but it didn’t mean I was willing to spend possibly a lifetime in jail for one I wasn’t responsible for. As far as I was concerned, I paid my dues when I went to juvie.
Various clothing and heels were scattered on the bed and floor. Makeup littered the dresser. Band posters adorned the walls.
It was all a blur as I passed through and entered the long, dark hallway. I didn’t know the layout so I checked every room in search of my target.
I was the big bad wolf come to blow the squealing pig’s house down. Anya’s mother claimed to have evidence proving I murdered Trevor and Anya, and while I didn’t actually kill them, I was there to find out what she knew.
After every room was searched, I confirmed she wasn’t home, and no one else was lurking. I proceeded to search the house from top to bottom. When nothing was uncovered, I sent out a quick text to Quentin to stay guard, and I bunkered down to wait.
Chapter Eleven
Keiran
“Do you see these gloves?” I pulled the black and gray leather material from my back pockets and waved them tauntingly for her to see.
They were still new and unused. I bought them the day I decided revenge was served best in its purest form.
“If you ever see these gloves again, it will mean the end for you. It won’t be swift, and it won’t be painless, but I can guarantee that it will be really messy.”
It wasn’t until after midnight that Mrs. Risdell finally made an appearance. The solitude afforded a lot of time to plot without the influence of Mario or the distraction of… everyone else.
“I’ll have you arrested!” she screeched.
“So you’ve said.”
“You’re a murderer.”
“Yes, I am… but I did not kill your daughter. You won’t believe me, and frankly, I don’t care, but earlier today, you mentioned evidence.”
“Why would you care what evidence I have if you didn’t kill her?”
“Because I’m not entirely innocent. Your daughter wasn’t either, but burning her alive was not my work.” I’ve never felt the need to explain myself before. I wasn’t all that sure that was what I was doing now. “But it doesn’t really matter,” I added, regaining myself. “Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything. I said it to scare you.”
Is she fucking serious? I leaned down and braced my hands on the kitchen chair she was currently tied to. “Do I look like I want to play the ‘Whose Dumber Than Who’ game?”
“It’s true. I don’t know anything, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
I slowly and calmly reached behind my back and pulled out the long hunting knife I kept from my past life, and a rag I’d found in the garage. “Well, that wouldn’t be very smart of you.” I yanked her head back, stuffed the gag in her mouth, and brought the knife down swiftly. Her muffled screams carried on long after the blade was lodged in the wood between her legs.
“The next one goes in your knee cap. I’ll dismember every part of your body and will keep you from ever walking, talking, hearing, touching, or tasting.” I removed the gag from her mouth. “Are you listening now?”
Her breathing shuddered as her body shook, and she looked up at me with fear. “Who are you?”
“I’m someone that not even your worst nightmare wants to fuck with.”
“But you’re just a boy.”
“Well, then I guess that makes me a unique breed. Tell me what I want to know. The clock is ticking.”
“I told you, I—”
The knife was against her face drawing a thin, red line against the painted and powered skin of her cheek. Her shaking became uncontrollable and continued even when I withdrew the knife. “Oh, God. Please don’t.”
“Are you going to make me have to kill you?”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently.
“Then give me what I came for.”
I knew the exact moment the fight left her. The threat of death was enough to persuade most, but the thought of living life physically impaired was the most persuasive.
“In my purse,” she directed. I continued to stare at her until she nodded her insistence. “In the inside pocket is an envelope marked with my name.”
I left her side to retrieve the medium sized, designer bag that was strewn on the floor. When she had come home, I took her by surprise and managed to restrain her with little fight, but not before she had tossed her purse at me.
To be honest, I hated it. It was hard being victimized in your own home, but it was just as hard to be the aggressor when you didn’t want to be. I wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a psychopath. I didn’t enjoy stalking and terrorizing but I did what any person would do when threatened. I retaliated.
I grabbed the envelope from her purse, and instead of ripping into it immediately, I eyed her up and down. There was something I needed to say before I saw whatever it was in there that had her convinced I had killed her dau
ghter.
“I’m sorry you lost your daughter.”
It was the most I was willing to give her. Saying that I regretted her daughter was dead would be a lie. Anya chose to be a part of a very sinister plan against Monroe and she lost.
Mrs. Risdell’s face was masked in confusion before she seemed to catch on. She didn’t nod or acknowledge what I had said as she continued to stare. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to make amends. I needed to save my ass.
I opened the envelope and ripped out the only thing inside.
A card.
A fucking sympathy card that read ‘Sorry For Your Loss’ on the front in colorful cursive print. I flipped open the card and almost swallowed my tongue.
A picture—with enough evidence to put more than just me away for a long time—was inside. The edges of the card crumbled under my tight grip when thick bold writing on the inside caught my eye:
You’re welcome.
* * *
I’d left her house as silently as I had come. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the hospital parking lot, unsuccessfully beating down panic and the feeling of failure.
A game plan was needed fast. Dash was on speed dial, so in less than ten seconds, I had him on the line. “Dash, we need to meet.”
His voice was full of sleep when he growled, “What? Right now?”
“What do you think man?”
“Where?”
“The hospital. I’m already here.”
I hung up the phone and peered down at the photo again, studying it, and hoping it might change and that I hadn’t royally screwed up. I had the good sense to know when I was fucked, but now I’d made the mistake of bringing my friends down with me.
I waited outside for Dash to arrive, and less than twenty minutes later, he pulled up wearing a grim expression and with bed mussed hair. Lately, his attitude had been worse than a bear with a thorn in his paw and a certain voluptuous redhead had everything to do with it.
“What was so important I needed to be out here at one in the morning?”
“She still isn’t talking to you?”