Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Margot
Margot, 22 years old.
No trespassing. We don’t call 911. A drawing of a handgun sits in between the two warning sentences.
Since Mr. Gade is a felon, I highly doubt he has a gun in the house. The sign is meant to scare all the people who protested when he moved into the neighborhood after being released from prison. That must make for a fun visit when his parole officer stops by. Or maybe his parole officer hasn’t had time to visit yet. Who knows, maybe he thinks the sign is funny.
A gun wouldn’t save him tonight anyway.
Considering I saw Mr. Gade strolling near the elementary school Monday afternoon and caught him talking to a kid yesterday, it seems the parole board was misguided in allowing this murdering freak his freedom so early.
Another example of the many ways the justice system fails children.
Ignoring the sign, I circle to the back of the house. Layers of darkness remain around the white rustic Victorian home. For a man who’d had dozens of death threats when he moved in, you’d think he would’ve installed some motion detector lights.
A window on the rickety back utility porch is partially open. I could probably crawl through it but I’d rather not risk getting my clothing caught on a stray nail. My blonde hair’s slicked into a neat bun, tucked up under my tight, black knit cap. The slick black jacket I’m wearing is brand-new and zipped to my chin. My tight black pants are also brand-new. I wanted to avoid leaving any evidence after tonight’s visit. Nothing from my home to be accidentally left behind and tied to me. The small black backpack slung tight to my shoulders and stuffed with supplies has never even been inside my home.
Still, I’ll probably make a mistake. But it’s a risk I’ve accepted.
For Hoyt. Little Hoyt who never got to grow up, to finish school, decide if he wanted to leave town or stay. A child who didn’t receive justice. Not as far as I’m concerned.
Stop. Don’t think about him now.
Let’s get this done.
Slowly, I curl my fingers around the small metal handle on the screen door. A low screech echoes as I turn, turn, turn the ancient knob.
I stop. Wait. Cock my head and listen.
The sound probably didn’t carry as far as I think it did. I tug and the door lurches open with a weary, metallic groan.
Another pause and listen.
I open the door just wide enough to slip through and onto the enclosed porch. It’s so dark, I can barely see in front of my nose as I step onto the bouncy wooden floor. I don’t dare take out my mini flashlight, though. Not yet.
A faint shine ahead of me must be the glass window on the door leading into the house. Beyond that a faint, blueish flicker.
Fear crackles through my stomach.
Mr. Gade must be awake.
There’s still time to leave. Go home. Forget this madness.
I curl my fingers around the brass knob and twist.
It doesn’t move.
I crouch down to inspect the knob. It’s a simple, single keyed lock. Same as you can buy at any hardware store. I pull out the master key I’d bought for this occasion. It’s supposed to work on a variety of simple household door locks.
Metal on metal grinds and clicks as I ease the key into the hole and meet resistance.
I swear under my breath and pocket the key. Although I have a small hammer in my little bag of tools, breaking the glass is a last resort. Instead, I finesse a small, thin, flexible piece of metal about the shape of a credit card out of my jacket pocket. Gripping it tight between my thumb and index finger, I wiggle it into the gap between the door and the doorframe, then slide it as close as I can to the doorknob. I’d practiced this at home on every door in the house. Once I get the feel for the mechanism, I tilt the metal toward the doorknob and quickly pop it back the opposite way. The latch springs free with a sharp click.
I push the door open a few inches and wait.
A hot wave of onions, garlic, and something more putrid rolls through the gap. I turn my head and gag. In all of my planning, I never considered how bad the house might smell.
There’s a slight whine as I push the door a few more inches.
Based on the photos I’d studied from the listing when the house had been for sale, I’m entering the kitchen. My eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, and I can make out old, white appliances—refrigerator, a crusty looking stove, and a battered microwave. It’s almost Christmas, but a filthy pair of Fourth-of-July-themed dishtowels dangle from the oven handle.
I close the door with the softest snick of metal on metal. Inside, the smell’s even worse. Like the man scrubs every surface and appliance with garlic cloves and onion peels instead of Formula 409 and a sponge.
The flickering from the TV in the front room catches my attention. I can’t see what’s playing on the screen but the sounds…they’re not innocent. My skin crawls and my heart lurches as if it’s trying to leave my body and run into the night.
No. I won’t give into my fear. This gets done tonight. Tomorrow, the world will be safer. One less fiend preying on children.
Or you’ll be the one who’s dead.
Or in jail.
Doesn’t matter. It’ll be worth it if I spare another kid Hoyt’s fate.
I’m not delusional. I don’t think I’m a savior or better than anyone else. I just don’t want to see another kid brutalized and murdered.
With my breath trapped in my lungs, I tiptoe across the tile floor. Even with my shoes on, it feels gritty or dirty under my feet.
Bam! My hip slams into something solid. A scrape of furniture against floor rips through the air.
My body freezes. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Blood pounds through my ears.
The awful moans and whines from the television continue.
In small increments I ease my body away from the kitchen chair I’d bumped into and edge forward. Silently, I slide the backpack off my shoulders and rest it on the chair I’d knocked away from the table. Feeling my way with gingerly outstretched hands and soft sweeps of one foot in front of the other, I continue toward the flickering blue light.
The living room is straight ahead. Long dark curtains cover the windows facing the street.
There he is. Dimly lit by the glow of the television. Unruly tufts of hair sticking out all over his head. No awareness that I’m creeping up behind him. Guilt and unease about invading someone’s private space prickle around the edges of my conscience.
No. He doesn’t deserve peace or privacy. The state of New York might think he’s “paid for his crime” but I strongly disagree. I’d bet my life Hoyt’s parents would agree with me.
I pull a syringe out of my pocket and uncap it. Two more full syringes are rolling around in my pocket—just in case. Full to the brim with a popular tranquilizer I’d helped myself to at the lovely veterinarian’s office when we did a pickup there last month. The poor man had a heart attack while tending to the animals overnight. One of the dogs who’d been boarded at the vet’s office stood guard over the old man’s body all night long. The vet techs had to gently coax the pup away so we could tend to the body. I suffered a twinge of guilt at the theft, but I didn’t have an easier way to get my hands on what I needed, and I knew this man had to be dealt with soon.
A sharp bleat of pain from the television’s speakers almost jolts my soul from my body. In the chair, Mr. Gade moans.
With great reluctance I turn toward the screen. Maybe my subconscious already knows what’s playing and my brain refuses to accept it. It takes great effort to force my gaze toward the sound of the awful noise. Finally, I take in the images. My stomach plunges.
I slam my eyes shut and bite back a whimper.
Children. That’s where the horrible sounds have been coming from. From children. Young ones. So small. Grainy images on the television. Being forced to do things no child should ever witness or be part of.
My fear and determination slip away, replaced with a sorrow that fills my heart, yet also leaves me frozen and empty.
Then my gaze drops to Mr. Gade. His hand shoved down the front of his sweatpants. His slack jaw and glazed eyes focused on the screen of horrors in front of him.
Enjoying himself.
Anger blazes my fear and sorrow into ashes, leaving nothing but the bone-deep need to end this sick creature’s life.
He’s so engrossed in his disturbing home movie, he hasn’t even noticed me.
The high back of his chair partially blocks my aim. I have to sneak in close—too close for my comfort—yet somehow he doesn’t see me in his peripheral vision. A dark, angry shadow about to plunge a needle into the side of his neck.
Now! I pierce his skin and jam the plunger down.
Stunned, he turns and jerks to the side, staring up at me with wide, confused eyes. His shoulder twitches up as if he wants to bat the needle away but his wrist is still trapped in the waistband of his pants.
His body jolts, the tendons in his neck standing out. Completely rigid, he slumps to the side of the chair, eyes wide and staring at me.
I’d been worried a dose meant for dogs might not be enough for a human, but it seems to have stunned him for now.
His lips move like a fish gulping air, but no words come out.
“Who am I?” I taunt. “Is that what you want to know?”
More fish-gulping.
“A friend of Hoyt’s,” I answer. “I’ve waited a long time for this night.” I tilt my head toward the screen without looking at it again. “I see you haven’t changed at all. The world’s going to be a whole lot safer with one less pervert in it.”
His limbs jerk as if he’s willing his body to move or run away. Still worried I might have the wrong dosage and he could escape, I pull out another syringe. Usually I’m sucking fluid out of bodies, but I still know exactly where to poke—right into his fat, juicy jugular vein.
He chokes and gurgles, his body curling in on itself like a dried leaf. Whoopsie . Maybe that was too much.
“I’d like to leave as little evidence behind as possible,” I warn, moving in front of him while turning my back to the television screen. “I wanted to stuff you into the wall. The way you did to Hoyt. But I feel like that’s going to take a lot of time and effort on my part.” I tap my chin as if I’m pretending to review all my options. “I don’t relish the idea of making your death look like a suicide, though. Because clearly you have no remorse for your actions.”
More choking sounds.
I pull a knife out of my pocket. “I really do want to take a souvenir, though, so I guess that will make it obvious it’s not a suicide.”
Now I’m just babbling. I wish I’d come up with a more solid plan before tonight. Stun and paralyze him with an injection so I can take my time killing him was as far as I’d gotten.
“Maybe a closet will work? It’ll take a while for anyone to find you. Give any evidence some time to deteriorate.”
I pull a thick black zip tie from the cargo pocket of my pants. Grabbing the sleeve of his grimy sweatshirt, I tug and pull until his hand pops out of the waistband of his pants. I grip his other wrist and bind them together, cinching the zip tie tight. Just in case the drugs wear off before I finish my search of the house. Keeping an eye on him, I squat in front of the chair and bind his ankles together.
“Guh-guh-guh,” he sputters.
“Gun? You have a gun you want me to shoot you with?”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
I’m not sure how to interpret that, nor do I care. Instead, I return to the kitchen, where I grab one of the gross little Fourth- of-July towels. I return to the living room and force it in his mouth, tying it tightly behind his head. “Just in case those two doses wear off. I didn’t precisely measure them.” A wild laugh escapes from my lips. His eyes bug impossibly wider as if a little unhinged laughter is more terrifying than anything else that’s happened to him tonight.
“People think guys like you get ‘prison justice’ when they’re inside, but that’s not always true, is it?” I tsk. “You had a nice, cushy, segregated area of the prison where you had the luxury of associating with more sickos just like you, right?”
He grunts unintelligible sounds through the dishtowel.
I sit back and squint at him. “Are you working your way through the alphabet or something? I can’t make out what you’re trying to say.” I flick the dishtowel out of his mouth.
“Puh, puh, puh-lease.”
“Please?” I ask in a high, mocking tone.
He blinks his eyes.
“Please. Huh. That’s interesting.” I swallow hard. “Did Hoyt say please? Did he beg you not to hurt him? Did all those other kids before Hoyt say please too?”
He stares at me.
I stand and grab the remote off the side table, then punch the mute button. Silence, except for Gade’s gasping breaths and my pounding heart, descends over the house.
“You stay put.” I laugh and shake my head. “Who am I kidding. You’re not going anywhere.”
With the final notes of uneasy laughter dying in my throat, I move out of the living room and into the long hallway stretching to the back of the house. On the left, a nightlight throws off enough dim light to make out a shadowy bathroom. Across from the bathroom, I push open a light door with enough force that the knob bangs into the wall with a harsh clang. I wince at the sound and throw my arm out to stop the door’s violent swing. I don’t want to turn on a light but then I notice the heavy curtains over the sole window. I thumb the switch on the wall and squint at the harsh, yellow glare from a single bulb overhead.
Piles and piles of clothing are scattered over every surface. Some of it in baskets. Some just heaped on the floor. The scent of detergent mixed with foul funk triggers my gag reflex. Someone must not like doing his own laundry.
A colorful stack of boxes in the far corner snags my attention and I hurry closer. Disbelief and dread battle inside me. Candy. Not even good candy. The generic, colorful, sugary candy that looks pretty but tastes like fruity chalk. The kind that appeals to young kids who haven’t yet discovered that better candy exists.
What’s Gade doing with such a large stash of treats? Nostalgic for his own youth? Or am I looking at the bait he’ll use to attract new victims? He used to give Hoyt and me candy all the time when we were kids. He even gave Hoyt little toys sometimes. I search the colorful boxes. Just candy.
Has Gade already harmed another kid? I’ve kept tabs on him, but I can’t devote every second to the man without raising suspicions.
Whatever the reason, the candy stash seems like another sign that I’m doing the right thing. As I stand, the curtains catch my eye. They’re thick and heavy but that’s not the only reason it’s so dark in here. A sheet of plywood has been bolted to the wall, completely covering the window.
Gade really wants to make sure no one can peek inside.
Still pondering the window situation, I wander into the next bedroom. It’s dark. Absolutely black inside. Probably more plywood covering the windows. I search the wall for a switch, flip it, and a small lamp in the corner blinks on, casting a soft pinkish glow around the room.
A child’s room.
Disgust and fear churns in my stomach. Who the hell would allow him to have a kid visit? Or is he setting up a trap for his next victim? The walls are painted a soft blue. A blue bookshelf holds rows of children’s books. The blue metal-framed bed is neatly made up with a bright red-and-blue race car comforter. Even the little lamp, now that I can see it better, is in the shape of a red race car.
Is this Gade’s room? From what I remember of him from when I was a kid, and in the interviews I’ve studied more recently, he acts childlike. It almost makes him seem non-threatening. When in reality, he’s a monster.
Does he sleep in this childish room to feel closer to his victims?
No, never mind. I can’t…I can’t dwell on the implications of this room. That’s not why I’m here. He’s a bad guy. He killed my friend. That’s all I need to know. Let the police do their jobs and discover the rest when they find his body.
I flick the light off and move to the last bedroom across the hall. The overhead light flickers to life, revealing old, heavy wood furniture with ornate carvings. The elevated four-poster bed is almost too big for the bedroom, taking up most of the floor space. A small step stool sits near the side of the bed. The covers are rumpled and tossed to the side. This is his room. An adult’s room, which makes the children’s setup across the hall even more concerning.
Sweat and something muskier seems to hang in the heavy air. I wrinkle my nose and slide one of the dresser drawers open. Empty.
The small closet holds a few jackets on hangers but not much else.
As I’m about to close the closet door, a small cut in the wall behind the jackets catches my attention. I search for a light inside the closet and find one of those small, round tap lights. I push the on button, praying the batteries are fresh.
The harsh white glare helps illuminate the back wall of the closet. The cuts in the wall are roughly the shape of a small door. My own house has plenty of little oddities, strange doors, and closets. But those have been there for decades. The house was designed with them.
This looks recent and sloppily done. Like Gade was in desperate need of a hiding place and took a utility knife to the drywall.
Dread fills my body.
What’s behind that makeshift door?
I tease my fingernails into the seam and pry the rectangle of drywall loose. It swings toward me like a broken piece of cardboard. Cool, musty air drifts over my exposed wrists. No scent of decay, thank God.
Edging closer, I thrust the light forward and peer inside. VHS tapes. Stacks of them against the walls. Shoeboxes also stacked in neat rows. I don’t have to be a criminologist to know what’s on the videotapes. Probably more of what was playing out in his living room.
I duck inside and pick up a large, yellow padded envelope sitting on top of the stack of tapes. It’s addressed to Gade at this address from a PO Box in Kentucky. Inside, it feels like another VHS tape.
Sure, knowing his parole officer would be monitoring his computer usage, Gade had to go old school—all the way back to videotapes. Amazing that he’s only been out of prison for a few months and already managed to track down this appallingly large collection of depravity.
Curious about the shoeboxes, I flip the lid off of one of them.
No, no, no.
A photo of a child in pajamas with terror written all over his face rests on top.
I slam my eyes shut. I can’t.
The box is full of photographs that I assume only get progressively worse.
I rest the lid on the box without closing it fully, afraid the malignancy of what’s inside will somehow wear off on me if I touch it too much.
Slowly, I back away from the tapes and boxes. A whispered zing of metal against the nylon of my jacket stops me. I turn my head to the side and stare. A large silver nail that has to be at least five or six inches long juts out of one of the wall studs at a sharp angle. That could’ve hurt if I’d backed into it. More large nails stick out from different spots. I can’t tell if Gade is planning to hang items or the contractor who built the house went wild on his nails budget, but it does give me an idea…
Otherwise, I’ve seen enough.
It’s time to finish what I came to do and then get out of here. The longer I stay, the greater my risk.
Gade’s eyes are glued to the screen when I return to the living room. They have a distant, far-off dreamy quality that crawls over my skin. He grunts and twitches as I stand in front of him, blocking his view.
“You’ve been worse than I expected.” I stare down at him, already weary of this disgusting man.
His throat works hard to release whimpers and muffled pleas of innocence. His fear and desperation only disgust me. I take no pleasure in torturing him and I certainly don’t want to drag this out.
My mind spirals with the dark possibilities. In a perfect world, no one person should act as judge, jury, and executioner. But the price of following the “law” in this case is an innocent child’s life being forever altered.
The videos.
The photos.
In my limited observation of Gade, I’ve already caught him wandering too close to the local elementary school. It’s all proof that it’s only a matter of time before he harms another child. He can’t help himself.
Should I try calling his parole officer first? What will they do—send him back to prison? Then I’ll be doing this in two to four years when they release him again.
No one else is going to put this man down. It has to be me. Besides, I’m already here and he’s already drugged.
We’re halfway there.
I’ve fantasized about this for fourteen long years. I can’t turn back now.
“I’d like to do this as quickly and cleanly as possible.” I pace in front of him, weighing my options. “I have my scalpel.” I pat my pocket. “I bought a new one, just for you.” I toss him an evil smile. “But that might get messy.” I look down at my black jacket and pants. I’m planning to burn them after tonight anyway, but I don’t want to encounter anyone between here and home with blood on my clothes. “That giant four-poster bed gave me some ideas though. I don’t need to get you high off the ground to—oh.” My nose wrinkles. “I found your disgusting stash. Your hidden room.”
His eyes widen and more gurgling noises work out of his throat.
“Yes, I think we’ll do it in your special little hidden room.”
The pieces of my macabre puzzle fall into place as I turn back to the kitchen and grab my small backpack of goodies. I take out the rope, hitch the backpack over my shoulder, and return to the living room.
“I was worried the drugs might not knock you out so I?—”
Gade’s belly-crawling and wriggling across the floor like a snake slithering for freedom.
“Oh no you don’t.” I knew I’d gotten too cocky. Hurrying to close the distance between us, I land on his back with one knee. “Where do you think you’re going?” I brace my other foot against the floor and loop the rope around his neck, yanking hard.
His forward motion stops but he thrashes underneath me. I yank the rope tighter and tighter, thankful for the gloves protecting my palms. Finally, he stops moving.
“You better not be dead yet.” Wary it might be a trick, I slowly ease myself off of him, still holding tight to the rope and breathing hard.
Now what?
Thankfully, he’s not a big man. I thread the rope through the zip ties around his wrists and use it to drag him to his bedroom. His body rustles and scrapes over the floor. Damn, the police will probably notice the drag marks through all the dustiness and grime of the house.
Then again, they’re going to find him stuffed in the wall and missing at least one body part, so that’ll kind of make it obvious it wasn’t suicide.
Dragging him down the hallway isn’t hard. Making the turn into the bedroom is a little more difficult. Pulling him into the closet and then through the space in the wall—is like pushing dough through a keyhole.
His wrists are raw and bleeding. Definitely no hiding that. Even if he’s here for a while, decomposing before he’s found, evidence that he was bound will still be there.
It’s awkward in the tight space. I end up crouching over him to tie the rope around his neck in a noose knot. Underneath me he wakes with a shuddering gasp. His body flips, his shoulder banging into my thigh and knocking me off balance.
“Shit!” I land painfully on my knees.
Still bound by the zip ties, he awkwardly flops and rolls to his hands and knees, then pitches forward, hitting the floor with his shoulder.
“Enough of this,” I growl, yanking the rope hard. The knot slides down, tightening around his neck.
He chokes and curls his thumbs under the rope, trying to tug it free but it’s sturdy rope and I practiced this particular knot over and over before tonight.
Groaning in pain, I stand and limp toward the wall. Dragging the rope with him flailing at the end with all my might, I lasso my end around the nail I almost impaled myself on earlier and tug straight down.
Gade gets to his knees and tries to crawl toward the door.
The knot around his neck tightens. He pitches forward but the rope keeps him from hitting the floor. I hurry to tie the loose end into another knot, tightening it, effectively hanging him in mid-air. I’ve assisted with a few bodies of people who accidentally strangled themselves during solo-sex sessions. I always thought it would be a fitting way for Gade to die. If I hadn’t found the nail, I probably would’ve used those tall bedposts that almost reach the ceiling. But this is better.
I pull on the rope again, wanting to choke every wisp of life from this evil man.
His body twitches and struggles as I step in front of him. The nail in the wall should hold. Even if it doesn’t, Gade’s too close to death to do much about it. I set my backpack on the floor and pull out the small glass lab jar, unscrewing the cap and setting it on the floor. I shake out a large plastic bag with a zippered seal at the top and set it next to the jar.
Gade’s eyes dart wildly while he chokes and drools, his skin turning an ugly shade of red.
“Hopefully for you, that anesthetic hasn’t worn all the way off.” I pull out my scalpel, gripping it tightly. I can’t feel the coolness of the metal through my gloves, but I don’t need to.
Gade’s tongue pokes between his lips. Red dots speckle the whites of his eyes as his body swings wildly to the side, desperate for oxygen.
“I have to listen to a lot of sermons in my line of work. Even took some theology classes in college.” My tone remains conversational and steady, even though inside I’m shaking. “And you know which quote always resonated with me the most?”
Gade’s eyes widen and he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a religious nut.” A wicked smile stretches across my face. “My job’s turned me into an atheist, if anything. No, actually—” I pause, allowing childhood memories to sharpen in my mind. “ You did that. Taking my friend. In such a brutal way. At the funeral, I asked my mother how God could allow something so awful to happen to Hoyt. Spoiler alert—her answer didn’t satisfy me.”
His throat works as if he’s trying to gasp for air or speak, but only scratchy, pathetic sounds escape.
“If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away.” I lean in close, my tone soft and almost reverent. “ That’s the quote. People don’t talk about it enough.”
Gage’s eyes bug out. Poor guy. He must sense where I’m going with this.
“Everyone says Jesus was being hyperbolic, but he said it twice . I think he meant it—avoid sin at all costs. All costs. Not commit your sins, pretend to ask for forgiveness, then do it all over again.”
His face really is turning purple now. Not much longer.
“You know, it reminds me of men who blame women for ‘dressing provocatively’ when they rape them. Like, what kind of bullshit is that? What’s the excuse when it’s a child, huh?” I slap his cheek. “I’m actually asking here. What was Hoyt wearing that got you so worked up, you sick fucker? His Optimus Prime T-shirt? Or maybe it was his kind smile. The way he’d wave hello to you in the morning when we passed your house?” My voice cracks but I continue, “We all would’ve been better off if you’d plucked out your own damn eyes. Better to enter heaven with no eyes than to sin.”
He thrashes, arms clawing at the rope.
I snort with laughter. “It’s not my place to judge, but I’m pretty sure if there’s a hell, that’s where you’re headed.”
Grabbing his head with one hand and holding him steady, I slowly sink my thumb into his eye socket. The soft, squishy tissue gives way easier than you’d expect. “It’s fitting that you were watching that homemade filth when I got here—I’m going to leave the television on, so the cops get a good look at what you were up to.” I probe and wiggle until there’s a wet, sickening pop and the eyeball comes free, still connected by nerves and tissue.
Thin, reedy, airless screams tear from Gade’s throat and his body sways from side to side, still tethered by the rope.
I flick my gaze to where the rope’s tied to the nail. The knot slides against the long, shiny metal but seems to be holding. All good.
Before I lose my nerve, I slice the blade of the scalpel through the connective tissue all around the eyeball. Gade’s head jerks once, then slumps forward, the rope still holding his dead weight.
I pop the eyeball in my little jar, secure the lid, and carefully wipe the blood on my scalpel off on a clean corner of Gade’s shirt.
My gloves are messy, and I carefully roll them off, turning them inside out as I do. I drop them in my open backpack and pull a new pair from a separate front pocket.
Exhausted but numb, I stand and stagger toward the boxes of photographs. Grabbing the one with the loose top, I dump the photos around Mr. Gade’s lifeless body, still suspended by the rope. Thankfully, many of the photos land face-down. But far too many assault my eyes.
Tears burn my lids, blurring the horrors in front of me. So many different children. Too many. Some have adults in the photos, too. I doubt these are all Gade’s victims. Probably photos he traded for or bought from other creeps. I can’t look at them too closely or I’ll break down.
I still have so much to do.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images are forever seared into my brain.
I should’ve taken both of his eyes.
Will the cops ever be able to piece together who these children are and where the photos came from?
Slower now, I grab a pair of snips from my backpack and cut the zip ties from Gade’s wrists and ankles, then stuff them in my pocket.
Blood from his eye socket drips and hits the wood floor with a soft splat, splat, splat.
Bile sizzles through my stomach but I can’t afford to get sick here.
Vigilante justice might sound romantic, but the reality is bloody disgusting. The stench in the tiny hidden room revolting.
I grew up in a funeral home. I’ve seen more dead bodies than I can count, made it through mortuary school, and dealt with every kind of death imaginable. There aren’t many smells I can’t handle. But prepping a body is sterile and detached. Compassionate even.
What happened here is visceral. Messy.
I step out of the small door, leaving it open. The musky bedroom air is a welcome relief. Should I close the door? The longer the body decomposes, the better for me. But the sooner the police find those videos and photos, the sooner they can try to find those children.
I leave the hidden door as it is. And I leave the closet door wide open.
Part of me is shocked and sickened by what I’ve done. The other part hoists my backpack over my shoulders and carefully retraces my steps, checking the house for anything I might have left behind. Hopefully, I’ve left no trace. But I’ve always known this was a gamble. All it takes is one footprint or hair I missed, and everything could unravel.
I’m okay with that.
Justice for Hoyt. That’s all I wanted.
And now I have it.
I’ll never murder again. One and done.
If only I’d known it was just the beginning.