Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  It was overkill. He wouldn’t have the patience to pause to check.

  I was right.

  The door immediately flung open to reveal a man in his forties. Even stripped out of his suit jacket, his showy clothes screamed wealth. Old money and too much power wafted from him.

  “Who’re you?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead as his eager eyes darted around.

  “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your date.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I may not have been the girl he was expecting, but I was the one who’d arranged this little tête-à-tête.

  His face paled. When he scanned the area again, I knew it wasn’t in search of the pretty young thing he was waiting for. He was looking for the flashing lights of a cop car or the rolling camera of a gotcha news special. Seeing neither, relief replaced his fear. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

  When he tried to slam the door in my face, I blocked it with my foot. “Rude. What’s the problem?” I shoved the cheap wood, knocking him off balance as I let myself in. “Is it because I’m a man? Or because I’m twenty years older than you expected?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, but the renewed panic in his tone said differently.

  “Big, powerful Mr. Danielson doesn’t know something?”

  The remaining color drained from his face as stark terror slackened his features.

  “Isn’t that what you like little Madison to tell you? That you’re so strong. So powerful. That she needs you because everyone else in your life knows you’re worthless.”

  “Shut up! I’m calling the cops.”

  “Good idea, I’ll wait here. They’d probably love to talk to,” I lifted my fingers to count off each name, “Madison. Elli. Sofia. Nichole.”

  Running a shaking hand down his face, he inhaled deeply. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. I’m here for them.”

  “They want money?”

  I studied him, trying to understand his thought process. Since I wasn’t a pathetic piece of shit, I couldn’t shove my head that far up my own ass to see things from his point of view.

  “You think they can put cash on their wounds and it’ll heal them?” I asked. “That it’ll restore the innocence you stole?”

  “Enough money can do anything.”

  That was true and exactly how men like Alfred Danielson came to be. Rich, bored men who needed bigger thrills to feel something. They thought the rules didn’t apply to them.

  And they were right.

  Wealth allowed them to simply buy and sell their way out of the consequences of their actions.

  “I’m not admitting a single thing.” He pulled out his wallet. “But to avoid the hassle and bad press, I’ll cut you a check right now if everyone drops these ludicrous fabrications.”

  “They don’t want a check. They want all of it,” I lied.

  They didn’t ask for any of his money, but I was going to make sure they got it.

  It was the very least he could do.

  “All?” he cried through a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. No. They have no proof of anything because there is nothing. I was willing to be generous to spare these troubled people, but that’s just insane.”

  Pulling my cell from my pocket, I turned it so he could see the screen. “And there are more.”

  “Who else has seen that?”

  “No one… yet.” I took out an index card and handed it to him. “You need to wire everything in your accounts to those numbers. Every last cent from every last account.”

  “No, I…” His words trailed off as I zoomed in on the picture. “Fine.”

  Sweating and shifty, he worked his way through the list before sitting back. “Done. Now delete everything.”

  I chuckled, but there was no humor in the cruel, cold sound. “You didn’t keep your end of the bargain.”

  Not that it would’ve mattered.

  “I did. Check my accounts,” he blustered.

  “I said from every account.” I shrugged. “It’s too late anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Silence can only be bought for so long.” I checked my watch. “And since you decided keeping the money from your offshore accounts was more important, your time just… ran… out.”

  Perfectly timed—because I was just that good and meticulous—his phone dinged. And dinged again. And again.

  Grabbing it off the chipped side table, he swiped across the screen.

  These are the times I wish I wore a hidden camera.

  In slow motion, I savored the way his nervous fear morphed into horror.

  I knew what he was seeing.

  Screenshot after obscene screenshot after nauseating dick pic.

  “How… How did you get all these…” he choked out.

  “Victims seek help. Healing. And sharing their trauma is part of the process.”

  “I’ll say I was hacked. That this is fake. Photoshop is capable of anything. Like that deepfake shit. It’s the work of an enemy out to get me. I’ll make it go away.”

  I, I, I.

  “This is your fault, you son of a bitch. You’ve ruined my life. You did this to me. I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Me, me, me.

  “Good idea. You’re already gonna rot in prison for the rest of your life, so adding murder won’t change much. On the plus side, at least it’ll be a short life. Bastards like you don’t last long on the inside.”

  “I’m not… That’s not…” Frantically, he began redressing and gathering his shit. “I’ll charter a plane. If I get to the hanger soon—” The incessant ringing of his cell cut him off and his reality crashed over him. “It’s too late, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, weak and sobbing. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the man who’s offering you an out.”

  “You can help me escape?” Hope lit his face, and fuck, I was gonna enjoy snuffing it out.

  “You could say that.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out an orange prescription bottle and shook it like a fatal rattle. “The permanent kind.”

  “No. I’d never. No.”

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m guessing you’ve got about twenty minutes before they track your location, so whatever you’re going to do, you better decide fast.”

  “I can run.” He bolted up and paced. “I have friends. They—”

  “Will cut you off like the gangrene limb you are. I bet they’re already composing their statements against you.”

  “I’m not going down for this. There are others. More powerful. I’ll flip on them.”

  “You’ll still serve time. They don’t give immunity to pedophiles.”

  He winced, as if the label hadn’t occurred to him. It probably hadn’t. Men like him rationalized and excused everything they did until, in their minds, they were blameless. Or even the victim. “I’ll figure it out. There has to be something.”

  “There will be something… Your face and every single one of your dirty secrets splashed across news stations, papers, and websites as they investigate every breath you’ve ever taken.”

  He continued pacing the room as he mumbled to himself.

  I didn’t give a shit what he did. Even if he was breathing, his life was over.

  But it’d be a fuck of a lot more satisfying to see him dead.

  Crossing my arms, I leaned against the door and half-listened as he talked in circles to end right where he’d started.

  Optionless.

  He must’ve reached that same conclusion because his legs gave out and he dropped to the edge of the bed. “Give me the pills.”

  His surrender was even sweeter than I’d expected.

  I held the bottle out before snatching it back at the last second. “First, you need to wire everything from your offshore accounts.” At his hesitation, I shook my head. “Even now you’re a greedy asshole. What’re you going to do with the money? Be buried
with it?”

  Danielson had the nerve to look thoughtful, as if the idea held merit. After a long moment, he must’ve realized he was no pharaoh, but he was still a greedy asshole. “Why should I? The destruction is done. My life is over.”

  “Think of it as penance for your soul.” Despite him sitting his hypocritical ass in the front pew every Sunday, that wasn’t incentive enough for him. “And if you give it away, your wife and your business partner that she’s fucking won’t get anything.”

  Pettiness did what penance couldn’t. He picked up his phone and worked his way through the list, that time emptying out everything. Within seconds of his transfers, the money had already bounced around countless times, becoming untraceable and ensuring it went to his victims rather than being held up in court for years.

  “Done,” he said, dropping his buzzing phone like it physically burned him to do the right thing.

  With his side of the bargain complete, I tossed him the pills.

  He bobbled the catch, the bottle hitting the ground with a rattle. Even once he grabbed it, he didn’t open it. He stared at it, spinning it back and forth. If he dragged his feet any longer, the cops would show before we got to the fun part.

  “They’re not going to swallow themselves,” I prompted.

  “Is there really no other way?” he whispered.

  Had he been an innocent man, and had my heart not been black, the pain in his voice would’ve been almost moving. Since neither of those applied, it was just grating.

  “Do you have a time machine?” I asked.

  He scowled at me. “How could you be so heartless?”

  Another bitter laugh burst from me. “I know what was on those screenshots. I’ve heard what you’ve done. You don’t deserve my sympathy. You don’t even deserve the mercy of a quick death.” I shifted away from the wall and lifted my shoulder. “I’ll leave you here to wait for the police.”

  I reached for the knob, but before I could touch it, he shouted, “Wait!”

  A cruel smile slashed across my face. I hid it before turning back.

  His sweating, shaking hands struggled to open the bottle. Finally getting the lid off, he glanced down at the contents before looking up at me. “Will you stay?”

  Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  “Yes,” I agreed, my voice even.

  Danielson sat frozen for a moment until sirens sounded in the distance. It wasn’t planned, and they weren’t even police sirens, but it was the push he needed to down the capsules with a few frantic, choking swallows. Once it was done, he collapsed onto the mattress, sobbing and chanting prayers to a god who would never listen to a man like him.

  Never once did he offer apologies.

  Never once did he show remorse.

  Like in life, his final thoughts were for himself. Which was why it was so gratifying when the pills kicked in.

  Because what I’d said earlier was true. Alfred Danielson didn’t deserve a quick death. Nor did he deserve a painless one.

  “Something’s wrong,” he gasped seconds before he cried out.

  If the pills were doing their job—and, based on his groans of suffering, they were—his insides would feel as if they were being torn apart by tiny, fiery jigsaws. Ripping and tearing and burning every inch of him.

  That was what he deserved.

  Leaning back against the wall, I enjoyed his torment.

  I savored each tear.

  Each thrash.

  Each anguished cry.

  And especially his last rattling, agonized breath.

  Grabbing his wallet, I pocketed one of his business cards along with the notecard of account numbers. I took one last look at Alfred Danielson, his face frozen in pain even in death.

  Pills weren’t my favorite method. Too impersonal. Too detached.

  But I couldn’t deny they’d been the right choice for him.

  The familiar satisfaction filled me as I headed home to add his business card to the rest.

  This was a good one.

  _______________

  IT WAS TIME.

  For nearly a week, I’d watched my already broken Briar fall apart. If she’d been closed off before, she’d become a fortress. Completely pulled away from the few people she let in. Even work didn’t seem to bring her any happiness.

  Her schedule stayed the same—the shelter, the center, or home. But that’s where her routine changed.

  Every day when she got home, she’d ignore the flowers waiting outside her apartment as she hurried inside. She’d lock the door, checking it more than once, before heading right to the closet to take out her kit. She’d line up the contents and stare—sometimes for minutes, other time for hours—before packing it all away again.

  Each time, the longing in her expression became more evident. The yearning became starker. Then the pain and self-loathing would weigh her down, stealing the bare hints of happiness she’d allowed herself.

  She was wilting, her stem unable to shoulder the burden of the world.

  It was time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Failing

  Briar

  For routines

  I’VE GOTTA GET out of here.

  Group had been never ending. I’d done my part, sharing some bullshit lie about how much I adored my new succulent and mini tree.

  I’d barely looked at either.

  When the hour finally wrapped up, I was sure my skin was about to peel away from the bone.

  I wished it would.

  My quick escape was thwarted by Derrick. He’d made his rounds, saying goodbye to each person individually and offering some small praise or compliment. Reaching me, he stopped closer to my personal-space-bubble than I preferred. “Good job again tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  I should’ve known ending the night on a compliment was too good to be true. I just wasn’t expecting the bombshell he flattened me with. “Dr. Linda and I were talking, and we think it might be a good idea if you added another group session.”

  “Wait, why?”

  Because you’re fucked-up, and they know it.

  They.

  Know.

  Everything.

  A small, reassuring smile curved his mouth. “We’re seeing a lot of progress, but we think you could benefit from more engagement with others.”

  You’re failing. How do you fucking fail at therapy?

  You let everyone down.

  Again.

  Cotton coated my mouth, making swallowing impossible. Speaking was like pushing the words through the shattered vase. “I’m trying.”

  And I was. I was trying so hard. Some of it may have been forced, but it was still a huge effort.

  “We know.” His sad eyes said what he didn’t.

  That my trying it wasn’t enough.

  I wasn’t enough.

  He stepped back. “Talk it over with Dr. Linda at your next session.”

  “I will.”

  I expected him to offer some bullshit banality or, worse, to page Aria for me. Instead, he smiled as he said goodbye before turning away.

  Usually when everything became too much, my brain detached from my body. Or, as Dr. Linda put it, I disassociated. I’d give anything for that to happen. I spent the bus ride trying to force it to happen. But the weight of my failure was too heavy. It pressed on my shoulders. It sat on my chest. It stole my breath.

  The whole way home, all I heard was how I wasn’t good enough. That I was a burden.

  It looped through my head, but instead of it being spewed in my mother’s voice, it was all of them. My father. Derrick. Dr. Linda.

  And Aria.

  I’d let everyone down.

  I was out of my seat and standing at the door before the bus even pulled to the curb. Practically running inside, I noticed there were no flowers waiting.

  Good.

  They gave up on me, too.

  I closed the door behind before backtracking to lock it—just in case. Rustling through my
closet, I came up empty.

  Where did I put it?

  I started throwing boxes and coats out, panic clawing at me as I searched everywhere.

  I needed it.

  But it was gone.

  My pouch was gone.

  I hurried into the living room to search, even though I knew I’d put it away where it belonged. I knew it.

  Shit.

  There it was, spread out on my coffee table. Positioned precisely.

  I’m losing it.

  I’ve always been off, but now I’m really, really losing it.

  I realized there was something else off other than myself. Before I could put my finger on it, the soft swell of music stole my attention. I thought it was my coming from my neighbor’s, but as the volume increased, it wasn’t muffled through the shared wall.

  Like every bad horror movie, it was coming from inside the apartment.

  And like every bad horror movie victim, I didn’t run for safety. No, I inched forward to investigate, following the sad melody until I saw it.

  A lens.

  The lens of a teeny, tiny camera that was mounted against the window frame.

  The sound cut off before picking up in a different location—either the hallway, bathroom, or bedroom.

  Someone was playing with me.

  Showing off their handywork.

  Confessing.

  With the creak of the floor and the hairs on the back of my neck standing, I knew before I even turned around.

  Whoever it was…

  They were right behind me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three Weeks Ago

  Him/Alexander

  NO GOOD DEED goes unpunished.

  I was learning that firsthand. Because in exchange for cutting a huge check to the Redmond Mental Health Center, I was being slowly tortured with a long as fuck tour of the facility I had no interest in seeing. And the entourage of kiss-asses they’d assigned to me kept making the damn thing longer by taking every opportunity to stop the welcome wagon in order to point out some change or upgrade they’d make with my money.

  Echoing my thoughts, Craig—my CFO—leaned over to whisper, “Why are you doing this again?”

  “Because it’s important to give back.”

  And because I know what these people—or at least ones like them—have gone through.