Chapter 43 Cal
Cal
We spend our final days together fucking, feasting, and watching horror movies that seem incredibly cheesy and unrealistic compared to what we've done. I try to talk sense into her, to make her see that her request is wrong.
All that it amounts to, though, is my realization that she's not insane. I mean, maybe she is. But she's also, without a doubt, depressed.
I recognize the symptoms now for what they are, from when I watched my mother suffer through it following my brother's funeral.
She wants to die, but she's too fucking tired to even admit that, too tired to even try to do it herself. She needs help, and I don't know how to find anyone qualified without her having to dance around the truth of what we did in her efforts to keep us safe.
I have a plan, though, to free her from the oppressive unhappiness, the sorrow tugging at her soul. I just need time to implement it.
I spend so much time fucking her hard, in every way she will let me, sharing the power in the fleeting moments where she rolls on top or takes control, that she's been exhausted. Exhaustion is good because it keeps her from torturing herself.
I work while she's asleep, making plans.
The paper she gave me when I asked her for names is small. It's a short list, given that one of the two names on there has already been crossed off.
We killed Jenko, and the only regret I have is that I don't know a necromancer who could bring him back to do the whole damn thing again. He deserves a thousand deaths, each one more painful and violent for what he did to my little doll and to every other person who became one of his victims.
The other name, though. He still needs to be dealt with.
Eric Giante.
The fucker who was supposed to love my girl, to treat her like his child, hasn't been seen in months.
He's just disappeared, fallen right off the face of the earth.
I've done searches through every provider site I could think of, ran his address, and combed his police files.
His wife reported him missing last summer, when he missed his parole meeting.
The dead end is maddening, particularly because I want her to know that he's gone. I want her to know that his reign of terror has, without a doubt, ended, that he will never again hurt another girl... never again hurt her.
I'm on some seedy website that I ended up on by clicking ads on the more reputable sites when my phone rings. I turn to check the caller ID, only to find it's not listed.
My father, most likely, taking caution in his contact. We've never talked as much as we have since I had to call him for his assistance. It's unfortunate that I had to re-establish contact after years of not speaking, but I'd do it again for her in a heartbeat.
The caveat is that he thinks I've finally relented. He knows I’m married, but it wasn’t the grand affair he wanted me to have. He’s also not getting a grandchild, giving him the respectable heir that he wants, someone to pass his dynasty to one day.
He doesn’t know that children are out of the question because she can't get pregnant, because I don’t think either of us would even if we could. If we were a normal couple, we'd explore options like surrogacy or adoption, but I'm not trying to create a family when it will only be ripped apart.
“Yes?” I snap into the receiver, not bothering to veil the irritation in my voice as I answer.
The chuckle on the other end of the line makes me sit straighter.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice is deep but silky— definitely not the booming bass of my father.
“Who is this?” I ask, instead of answering his question.
“Depends.” The voice pauses a second. “Why are you looking for Eric Giante?”
I freeze, taken aback by the question, the knowledge that nobody should have since I haven't so much as said the fucker's name aloud.
Deciding it's best not to incriminate myself over the phone to a complete stranger, I opt not to tell him I'm looking for him so I can murder him in the most brutal way possible. “He took something from a friend of mine…” I say slowly, telling the truth to see how the stranger responds to it.
“Is it something you can get back?” He asks.
I don't know if the stranger on the other end had some kind of webhook setup or alert to notify him that someone was searching for this guy. I don't know if I'm speaking to the monster himself. Again, I opt for the truth.
“No. It's not the kind of thing that sorry covers.”
“Ah.” Recognition fills the small sound, and then he clears his throat. “You should tell your friend that Giante is somewhere he'll never be seen again. Somewhere with no people to hurt... no one to steal from.”
I’m pretty sure the stranger who called me just admitted that the man I'm looking for is dead. And the only people who would know that are someone who wants me to stop digging or the person responsible for his death.
“I'm not sure that will be of comfort to her without any kind of proof.”
The man on the other end laughs, and to my surprise, he actually sounds amused.
“Maybe not. But what may be of some comfort to her is that when he died, he was thinking of all the innocent people he stole from.
If you dig a little deeper, you'll see that he had six reports of stealing from people like your friend.
If she's one of those names, rest assured, he heard her name in his final heartbeats. .. and they weren't kind.”
I swallow.
I know as well as the stranger that this is a murder confession. And perhaps, a thinly veiled threat to stop looking for the criminal.
“Who is this? How did you get my number?”
“Don't worry about me, Callum. There are monsters far worse than me that need slaying.”
“Don't I fucking know it.” I grumble, then laugh when I realize I said that out loud.
“Stop digging on Giante. Take my word for it.”
“Wait!” I can tell he's about to disconnect the call, so I don't think before I speak. It's absolutely ridiculous, but I don't lose anything by asking. “Do you, by chance, know a good therapist... for my friend who he stole from?”
There's a beat of silence where I scrunch my face up, feeling like the perfect idiot I am for even voicing it out loud. But I've already committed. “It's just... she'll need someone to talk to with less... discerning morals.”
I swear I hear a laugh from the other end before it's covered by the clearing of a throat.
“Keep an eye on your email. I'll send some recs.”
I don't even get a chance to say thank you before the call ends, and I find myself staring at my email, waiting for the references.
She's going to need them.