by Katy Rose
Making my way back to Kora’s side, I turn on her desk lamp and sit there thinking about what we are going to do. It took her system until five am before the drugs wore off. When she begins dry heaving, I stick my finger in her throat and turn her on her side. Her entire stomach erupts onto the bedroom floor. Holding her hair back, I watch her carefully for signs of trauma. After she is finished, she begins shaking. Shit. I knew she would be triggered in her past if I was.
“Where did he go?” She whispers, looking around for her own personal demon.
“His body is in the bathtub,” I state flatly.
“You killed him?” she didn't sound surprised, sure of the fact.
Shrugging, I nod. “He was hurting you. I blacked out after you said help. It was let him hurt you or I hurt him. I will always choose you over anyone. You are my sister, my family. Remember? Volpe matter. Volpe above all else.”
She is quiet for a long time before she gets up and goes downstairs gathering supplies. When she comes back, she has trash bags, duct tape, a bucket, and some bleach. “Let’s clean up. Get those sheets and throw them in the fire. I will call daddy and tell him I want to redecorate my room. I am sure he won’t care.” For the next two hours, we meticulously scrub and throw away anything that could be tied back to us.
Next, we wrap Drake's dead body in trash bags and the carpet too. Duct taping it all down. We open the linen shoot and throw him down to the basement. We take the stairs down and lock the basement door behind us. Kora is an artist, mostly metal sculptures. Her art studio happens to be in the basement since there is a drain in there. It makes for easy cleanup for her pottery wheel. After she explains, she has some remodeling plastic laying around from getting the place painted and fumigated the plan is in place.
It takes several more hours, but by eleven am we have a Dexter worthy kill room. Plastic lines the walls, tools are laid out on her stainless-steel workbench. Disgusting dead rapist lays on the workspace in the center. We set to work dismembering him. It took all of twenty minutes after we took out his personal effects. In the end, there were eight small garbage bags that we loaded up as well as the carpet that had been sliced in pieces.
Before we leave the townhouse, we make sure to shower and freshen up; you know we have to keep up appearances and all that fun shit. We finish loading the trash bags in the trunk of the Phantom and drive around the upper East side depositing body parts. We make sure not to put any of the bags close together as we dispose of them. Trash pickup is tomorrow morning in this area. Taking a sigh of relief, we make it to a Starbucks to grab a cup of coffee. It is there that we begin to go through Drake's phone.
It seems Drake likes to take selfies. Lots of them. There are also videos of parties and pictures. Scrolling through his messages, I stop cold. There on the screen is a five-way messenger between Drake and his douche bag friends. They are discussing a party where they each had a date rape drug, and they were going to test out the potency of it. They were each sending pictures of the girls they were targeting. Drake had shared a photo of Kora. I scroll upward through the weeks of messages. They had been doing this sick game for months. Targeting a girl and sliding her a date rape drug. If the drug was successful, they invited the others to take part by messages such as “Yeah, come on over bro. She is still out cold. You can get it off too.” My stomach churns, and I turn for the artists sink in the corner before throwing up all of its contents.
Pulling up a spreadsheet on her computer Kora and I go through all the messages from the last six months. There are at least one hundred and twenty victims. There were eight guys included randomly. Mostly it was the same five, but occasionally there were three others. I knew Drake, and two others were teammates on the lacrosse team. There were two football players and a member of the student government. Even the Dean’s son was in a few of the videos. After we had the names of all the disgusting pigs who did these rapes, we thought about our course of action. Should we blackmail them? Kill them?
“I feel like they need to pay, Kaleb,” Kora says quietly. Nodding along, I agree with her.
Marcus, Logan, and Trent come from very wealthy families. Their victims seemed to be sophomores or girls who were younger. They were teammates, and as I said, teammates were like an extended family — this hurt more than I expected. Drake’s betrayal was only the beginning. One of the guys, Christian, was friends with Kora's ex. It makes me wonder if there weren’t more victims closer to her. She must have the same thought because her body shakes, and she falls into her desk chair a little hard. Several questions still need answers.
How did they get away with this for so long? How is no one doing anything? What should we do about it? The answers seem simple enough: money makes problems go away. As for what we should do about it…going to the police seems like the best answer, oh wait except we killed a guy. Shit. I guess that is our answer. Placing a hand on Kora’s shoulder, it cuts deep when she flinches. I know it is nothing to do with me. I have never forced myself on any woman or harmed Kora in any way. She has always been mine to protect. The thought of what he did burns like acid in my mind. I could kill him again.
“We need to take care of them, K. We need to protect the others on the list.” I keep a calm voice, even though every ounce of me wants to go out and kill them all right now. I know we must be smart. Nodding, she scrolls through all the victim's names before answering me. “By any means necessary.”
I am still in shock. My body and soul have completely shut down and detached from reality. I should probably feel bad that Kaleb killed Drake. I should be scared that he is planning on harming the other guys in the pictures, but I’m not. I feel strangely vindicated. He hurt me, took away my will, and then took from my body without my permission. My brother killed him for it. I know it was wrong to kill him, but I also know there wouldn’t be real justice for these other girls or me. Money can, unfortunately, buy freedom and make something as trivial as rape go away.
As I scroll through the pictures, I see the girls and look them up on social media. Making a folder, I copy pics of them and collect them in a folder. I also gather pictures of the guys who appear in the videos and print them off Drakes phone. I write down phone numbers, addresses, schedules. Anything that could be useful for getting even with them. One wall on the far-right side of my studio is a huge cork board. Taking an idea from the police, I pin up the guy's pictures. Under each, I write the names of their victims and dates from the videos and pictures. Saving everything to a flash drive, I grab some old magazines and start cutting letters out.
“Nice board, what’s with the ransom notes?” Kaleb asks as he comes down to my art studio freshly showered. I sigh and look down at the blackmail messages.
“They are to scare the guys. A sort of “I know what you did last summer” kind of fuck you warning.” I sigh and try to laugh a little. It comes out soft and flat; there is no hiding from Kaleb.
“You don’t have to fake it for me. I know you’re going to be fucked up in the head for a long time, Kora. No one goes through rape and is fine a few hours later. If you want to rage, do it. You want to go silent or paint your frustration, do that, too. Whatever you need to do to process, do it.” Kaleb tries to reassure me. I wish it were that simple.
“Kaleb, I am going to go take a shower. When I get done, I am going to go over the messages again and mail these letters. You know, we have never been normal. I was raped. I hurt from my soul out. But I think I need this. To let my anger out where it is deserved. They deserve to pay. They deserve to hurt for what they did.” I get up and walk upstairs to the guest room, turning on the hot water as hot as I can stand it. Getting under the water, I scrub my body hard until the water runs cold. I still have a slimy feeling after I am done, but it is getting easier to breathe.
Heading down to the kitchen, I make a cup of hot tea and sit near the kitchen window. I try to think about classes or my father's business, but nothing works. The flashes of Drakes face still breakthrough. Those jagged memories
are followed by memories of when I was six. The foster father we stayed with would make me play games with him. Memories spin around and around in my head until I feel heavy. Needing an escape, I grab a drawing pad and my headphones heading down the hall to the library. Hopefully, between the whiskey and Manson, I can forget my shit for a while and forget it all.
Two hours later, I have sketched a gorgeous giraffe and her baby. Animals are so much better than humans. They protect their young for the most part. At least they don’t abandon them or adopt them for the publicity and then ship them off to boarding schools and only visit a few days a year. That is only my father. I don’t even know his wife. Is it the same one from when he adopted us fourteen years ago or is it a new one?
Kaleb comes in and looks at my sketch. I can see the admiration in his eyes. He isn’t one for art, but he tries for me. Watching me, he asks, “Giraffes?”
“They are gentle giants. Content in being themselves and relaxed. What have you been up to?” I ask curiously.
“I was thinking about this situation. I think we should take them out. All of them. They are trash. People are trash, Kora. We both know the system fucks over people for money. Why don’t we just …. Not. Let. It.” He starts running his hand through his hair, and I get the feeling of how serious he is. Stare at him thinking.
“What you are asking, we will be serial killers,” I state flatly. Maybe he needs a reminder that this is a reality?
“Yes. Well, I was thinking more along the lines of anti-heroes. Look, these guys are bad right? They need to be stopped. We both know the police aren't going to. Most of their families make up the top one percent. With that much money, they can make anything go away, even rape. I'm not saying we have to kill them all. We could torture information out of them. Or blackmail them and give the money to the victims.” His leg begins shaking, and I can tell he is serious about this.
“How would we even do this? And you think we are smart enough to get away with it?” I grin a little, he always has these grand ideas. Most of them really do come to fruition, though.
“I am so glad you asked, come here.” Grabbing my hand, he pulls me from the chaise lounge, and we make our way down to the art studio. Pulling out my desk chair, he points me toward it. I sit as he walks toward the cork board and grabs a pointer finger from the desk. He looks at me seriously.
“What happened to you was horrible. I feel sick. If I hadn't broken in your room, I don't want to think about what else he would have done. But he did do that, and he had done it before to so many more girls. He wouldn't have been remorseful. He wouldn't have ever apologized sincerely. Now, how did these guys come up with this sick game? Were they that smart? Or are there others in on it? I say we target Trent and torture him until he talks. We could waterboard him, do the whole fingernails thing, gag him. Or find his phobia and exploit that.” He takes a breath, and before he can get any farther in this plan, I intervene.
“Again, Kaleb, how do you plan on getting away with this?” I ask. He laughs at me. A loud belly laugh. One that tells me I must be missing a huge and very obvious point.
“Kora. We are Volpe. Our last name strikes fear into even the chief of police and FBI. Or it gets their wallets out. Even if we get caught, we can get off. I know it is all bullshit, but here we are. This is how we can get revenge and justice for you and all those girls. Did you see that Tara was on the list? She is the quietest girl I have ever met. She is like a mouse in the lion's cage, and they raped her. We can’t leave this up to chance. We have to take the lead and get the answers.”
“So, you plan on torturing people until you figure out who the leader is and then what? Kill him? How are you going to kill them and not get caught?” I ask incredulously. My brother is too much, sometimes. He has always been the protector — the kid from the wrong side of the tracks who has that rough background. I have seen how girls look at him. They love him. Want to fix him, help him any way they can. But what they do not understand is Kaleb is not broken. He is scarred from battle. Usually, from saving me. He stepped in against the foster dad. He stepped in when kids picked on me in elementary school for being weird. He saved me last night. I need to know the details for my own piece of mind.
“Creative and inventive ways, my dear girl. We have to stay two steps ahead of the cops. Easy. We won’t dispose of the bodies in the same places, we won’t leave behind DNA evidence, and we won’t kill people in the same way. One we could blow up in a car, we could slit a throat, cut up bodies and burn them, turn a toilet tank into a bomb and burn one’s house down if we wanted.” He begins pointing to pictures and crude sketches about each guy. Who he knows is too stupid to be the leader, who he thinks went along with it.
I take in so much information I have to ask. “Why can’t you shoot them like a normal person?”
“Because Kora,” sighing he rubs his temples, “First off, guns are loud, and they leave blood splatter. Secondly, you can’t kill two people the same way. That is how serial killers get caught!”
“So, your plan involves a toilet then?” I ask.
“Just the tank, try and keep up.” He shakes his head at me, “We turn the tank of the toilet into a bomb. When he sits down, he will blow up.”
“Ok. Just the tank. This is crazy, isn’t it? I feel crazy.” I am worried. Not because I don’t think we can pull it off. I am scared because I believe we can.
“It only has to go as far as you want it to. If you don’t want to do this, we can drop it altogether.”
“No! No. Those girls deserve justice. I am in. Do you think we need any help?” I wonder about the number of bodies we are about to go through. Serial killer would be a good title.
“If we need help, I know who to call. You get me the info on where the target is going to be and at what times. You might also want to invest in some wigs. It would be good to not have any distinguishing marks.” He looks pointedly at my tattoos.
“Well I can wear long sleeves and a wig, I guess. I don’t know that I can kill anyone, though.” I look down at the giraffe sketch and think about being strong enough to kill someone. Could I really do that and live with the guilt?
“You have to turn your humanity off. Go to that dark place you used to when bad things happen. But, instead of being scared, use it. Hurt them back.” Once again, my twin can read me too well. “Besides princess, I am the villain, don’t you know? As long as you handle clean up, I can do the killing.” He looks so serious, and I wish I was good at taking away his worries as he seems to be at taking mine away. But I’m not, so I don’t. Instead, I stand up and stretch before walking up closer to the bulletin board. I go over all the information we have and look over the guys. Something feels off, like we are missing a huge piece of the picture. But what?
When I get to Drake’s picture my jaw clenches and my hands squeeze tight into fists. I can feel the blood pool where my nails have dug into my palms — a rage as white and hot as lightning burns through me. Then looking down the row of victims I feel strangely happy at the thought of hurting each and every guy on this board. I have no time to be scared now. I have to avenge myself, and these girls. Turning back to Kaleb, I tell him my idea. “We should use Volpe Cabin up near Lake Ontario. The one he owns but never takes us to. I bet it is empty. We could torture Trent there without anyone hearing.”
“You want to start with Trent? Why?” Kaleb asks as he watches my face. I explain to him that I counted seventy messages between Trent and Drake alone. Twenty-five group messages were led by Trent. Therefore, he seems the best place to start. Nodding along Kaleb pulls up Trent's class schedule before crossing referencing it with Trent's work schedule and practice. In the end, it seems Sundays and Tuesdays are the best days to get him alone.
“Should we follow him first? Make sure we are right?” I ask.
“No. I don’t want him to have another chance to hurt an innocent girl again.” Kaleb states flatly before pulling out Drake’s phone and messaging a few people. I sit back in my compute
r chair and look at all the dots on the bulletin board. This is where my path is going, huh, I am surprisingly not as freaked out about it as I thought I would be.
The next two days I hack into security systems for the college library and sandwich shops along the route from Trent's Frat house to the University’s quad and back. I make sure to take in all the alleys along the way looking for the most secluded place to take him. Dressing in running clothes, I take a few laps around the university campus at large and focus on the area Trent would be walking by. I decide a few blocks away would be best. There were no cameras, and it was dark enough; no one would be able to pick us up from the camera down the street.
A guy in my civics course named Eric had a Honda for sale for $700. Monday morning, I grab the cash out of the safe in the library and bought his car. I tell him I need to borrow the plates it has on it until I have time on Thursday to get new ones. He never questioned me, only handed over the keys and counted his money. Around two in the morning on Tuesday, I parked the Honda in the alleyway with a stolen handicapped sticker.
At nine Tuesday night I make my way down to the Honda with my gym bag. Inside the bag is a newly made hunting kit. I have a rope, a ball gag matches, chloroform, and various other items conducive to a kidnapping. In the end, it takes less than five minutes to spot Trent when he leaves the library. He walks along the sidewalk nose stuck in his phone. I watch as he gets closer. Leaning against the truck, I pulled out two beers. One open…one seemingly sealed. Thanks to the little Latina nurse I enjoyed last night, the “sealed one” is spiked with Flunitrazepam, a sleep aid her father’s insomnia. Three of them may have disappeared from his bottle and made their way into the sealed beer. Mixed with the alcohol content in this beer it is enough to drop a linebacker.