11. Delancy #2
She pauses and gives me an empathetic glance.
“Keep going,” I urge, not meaning to distract her by blurting out my trauma.
“I heard her yelling when two men broke in, so I came out of my room and hid at the top of the stairs. Then I saw one of the fuckers shoot her point blank. I screamed. They ran after me, but I made it back to my room in time to lock them out.
“They tried to get in. They almost did, but one minute they were kicking and punching the door and the next there was nothing but silence.”
She takes another drink of her wine to compose the rest of her thoughts.
“I had nightmares every night that first week after. I’d wake up screaming and covered in sweat. My father didn’t have time to deal with a traumatized child, so he sent me away. He also claimed it was to protect me, worried the men would come back for me.
“I spent years in therapy for what I saw, and when I turned eighteen, my father begged me to return home. He promised the threat was over, but I wasn’t ready. I enrolled in college, attempting to live a normal life. I even got my degree in business management.”
This would explain her fake background report. A new life was created to protect her from the men she witnessed killing her mother. My question now is what’s her real name? Why was her mother targeted? Who is her father? Was he someone important and her mother became collateral damage?
We’ll get to those questions eventually. I don’t want to scare her away right now by interrogating her.
“After graduation, I traveled. I took self-defense classes because I never wanted to be put in the same situation as my mother. I wanted to be able to fight back and taking these classes did more to help me heal than therapy ever could. Don’t get me wrong, I needed therapy, but I needed to fight more.
I started out with karate, then over the years advanced to Jiu Jitsu. I spent months in Brazil—”
“That explains how you were able to kick my ass—”
“And I was going easy on you.”
I smile and take a bite of my pizza.
“About five or so years ago, I started looking into my mother’s death.
.. the circumstances of that night. The men were never caught—at least, that’s what my father claimed—and when I asked him about it, he dismissed me as if I didn’t have a right to know.
It pissed me off, so I took things in my own hands.
“I stayed busy because I didn’t have many clues, and I ran into a lot of dead ends, but as I investigated, I came across other horrible people. People who did similar things to what happened to my mother. So, I started killing them.”
She shrugs as if she just confessed to enjoying iced coffee over hot coffee.
“That’s when people started calling me Colpa Sicario. The Guilt Killer. It’s funny because I never meant to make contract killing a career. I go about it in an unorthodox way. I’m all over the place, so I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested or killed yet.”
She underestimates herself.
She’s badass.
Surely, she knows this?
My stomach flutters at the thought of Noah out there kicking ass and killing monsters.
My dick also takes notice. If it weren’t for her injuries, I’d ravish her right there on the couch.
Fuck her until her pussy’s pleasantly sore.
Choke her while she orgasms to heighten her release.
How wonderful my hands would look around her neck.
“What about you? How did... how did your mother die?”
I flinch. I knew she was going to ask. I didn’t mean to let that slip out. Talking about that night is not something I do. Ever. With anyone. Not even my brother.
I swallow hard and exhale a long stream of air before answering. “Her throat was slit.”
“I’m so sorry, Delancy.” She moves as if she’s about to come over and comfort me. I want that more than anything, but I hold up my hand to stop her.
“By me. I was the one who killed her.”
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“They made me,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“It was three men. They showed up at our home, it was around ten at night. Mom and I were watching a game show on television—she loved game shows—I can’t even remember which one.
I think my memory blocked it out. I remember everything else.
They shot down the door. She rushed me into a closet to hide but the door didn’t shut.
I watched them tie her up… I watched them… ”
I shake my head, not wanting to voice the unspeakable things they did to her against her will.
“I was crying so loud that they found me. After dragging me out, they ordered me to kill her, or they’d kill me.
They laughed and laughed when I begged them not to make me do it, tears streaking down my cheeks.
One of the men pulled out his knife and sliced it over my arm.
It stung. I’d never felt such pain up until that moment.
Not even when I fell out of a tree and broke my arm when I was six. ”
I trace over the scar. Something I do every day to keep my mission for revenge in check.
“It scared me and suddenly, I didn’t want to die. I took the knife from them and held it to my mother’s neck. My hands shook violently.
“Do it, baby,” she said. “Mommy loves you but do this so you can live.”
“So, I did it. I slit her throat. I remembered the way she regarded me as her life faded. Not with fear or disappointment, but with all the love a mother can have for her child. I never understood that, and I never believed I deserved that look from her. I’d failed her. I killed her.”
I pause to swallow down the tears burning my throat.
“One of the men snatched the knife from me. He told me I was next. I ran outside into the cold winter night. It had snowed that morning. My mom and I built a snowman in the front yard, which I knocked over trying to escape. I wasn’t fast enough. The man caught me, stabbed me, and left me to die.”
My eyes are closed, but the cushion next to me dips, letting me know Noah is there. She takes my glass of wine and empty plate and sets it on the end table.
“Lay your head in my lap.”
I open my eyes and gulp.
“What?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been coddled, and I want to coddle you. Lay your head in my lap so I can run my fingers through your hair.”
The tears lingering in my throat beg to be released.
I want to suppress this vulnerable feeling like I always do, but she’s right.
I don’t allow other people to take care of me.
Not since my mother was killed. Even when I turned eighteen, Elias told me to learn how to take care of myself, as if I hadn’t been holed up in a psychiatric hospital since the age of twelve with no clue how to be human.
I lie down on my side, wincing at the bruises Noah gave me during our fight.
My forearm, thigh, and nose still throb with pain.
She buries her fingers into my hair and combs them over and over—more like she’s petting a sick puppy than a dangerous killer.
Her nails rake over my scalp, and I can’t help the soft moan that escapes.
We stay like this for several minutes, neither of us speaking. Only the sound of the rom-com playing in the background.
I’m grateful we didn’t get to the part about why my mother was targeted. Because then I’d have to confess that I’m part of the QBM. But what about her? What are her secrets? While I’ve stalked her, I can’t follow her around all the time. I’m eager to uncover what else she’s hiding from me.