Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Leo
When I told her I’d be seeing her, I didn’t mean through a fucking window again.
I told her to be ready at six and to wear the dress I sent.
I was at her house by six. Then six thirty came along.
And at seven o’clock, she was still nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure at which point during our conversation I implied that I wanted her to have dinner with someone else besides me.
Yet here we are with me standing outside in the cold after having a shit time at practice, watching everyone parade Jack around while giving me dirty looks. And yesterday, traveling to and from our game out of state, I had to sit next to that cunt, acting like we’re the best of fucking buds.
As if this day couldn’t get any better, she’s smiling at Thomas. Twice, she’s laughed at something he’s said.
Has she smiled at me to my face? No.
Have I heard her laugh in person? No the fuck I haven’t.
My fists curl as I watch the fucker lean over and say something to Mina, and there she is, chuckling again. What the fuck could he even be saying in front of both their parents.
Wait. Is she blushing?
Oh, he’s fucking—
My eye’s twitching. He’s touching her arm. He’s fucking touching my girl’s fucking arm. She’s tensing up, and he still has his hand on her.
That’s it. He’s dead.
I should be the reason for her happiness. I should be the one getting her attention. Not fucking Thomas.
I arrived back home expecting to have a nice evening with my future wife, only to find that she has spent it with another man. In what world did Mina think I would take kindly to that? Especially after our discussion yesterday morning.
Especially after she didn’t send me one single measly text all fucking day. I wanted her to reach out first. I waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing came.
I glare at her profile through the window, counting down the minutes until they finally leave the dinner table.
I take it as my cue to get in my car. Eventually, Thomas and his parents come waltzing out the front door and to their respective cars.
The couple goes one way, and Thomas? He doesn’t notice when I go the same route as him.
The only reason he hasn’t been dealt with after all the time he and Mina have been texting is because he never actually stood a chance.
He doesn’t now either. I refuse to fucking believe it.
But Thomas is being dealt with tonight.
Thomas is just at the wrong place at the wrong time. An unfortunate turn of events. To the public eye, he’s done nothing wrong. To me, I don’t need more reason than what he’s provided me.
If I can’t kill Jack or the person who attacked Mina, he’ll have to do.
Unfortunately, the prickly fucker doesn’t live out in the middle of nowhere, so I’ll need to properly think this shit through.
I keep driving to see what I’m working with. I knew he lives in this area; I simply never cared to work out whether it was a house or an apartment. Of course, the man I want to kill has to live in the latter. Because why not make it harder for me?
Do I dispose of the body? One look up and down the street tells me the answer is no. It’s too busy, and I’ve spotted one too many cameras for my liking. It’s not the safest neighborhood around, but it’s by no means worthy of pearl clutching.
Method of death? There are too many options. Whichever I choose, Thomas isn’t allowed to so much as squeak, otherwise the neighbors might hear.
Killing Jack would’ve been so much easier to carry out. The only hard thing about it would be deciding how, precisely, I’d torture him first.
I’ll have to wait at least five more fucking hours to make sure everyone is sleeping soundly in their beds.
Gritting my teeth, I drive to the end of the street and make my way back home to get everything I might need.
Duct tape, ropes, a hunting knife, a lock-picking kit, another roll of duct tape (just in case), cleaning supplies, a hammer (it’s best to be prepared), and a first aid kit (for me—just in case).
With the duffle bag packed, I stand in my kitchen, looking around for anything else that could be necessary to carry out tonight’s task. I can’t very well google it.
An idea comes to mind that has me jogging up the stairs and into my office to grab the book Mina wrote about a serial killer. I flick through the pages until I get to the tab I stuck during one of the murder scenes.
I don’t need the internet when she’s done all the research for me.
A couple pairs of latex gloves, ski masks, plastic bags, and a pair of shoes two sizes too big for me goes in the bag next—a random brand sent it to me.
Then I sit on the couch, and I wait. And I fester. In doubt. In worry. In excitement. My mind runs wild with the possibilities. It throws questions of whether Thomas deserves the fate I plan on bestowing.
But when I close my eyes and imagine the blood on my hands, I only ever see one face: Jack Norton’s.
My knuckles bleach white at the thought that it’s his house I’ll be going to. That it’s his skin my knife will be piercing. As hard as I try to picture that it’s Thomas I’m going to be paying a visit to, I see someone else.
One day, it’ll be Jack meeting his maker, and I’ll be the reason for it. I’ve been dreaming of his demise since I was a pimple-faced teenager, and it’ll soon be time to take matters into my own hands.
I don’t know when, and I don’t know how—he’s got a noose around my neck and every piece of evidence pointed at me—but the day will come.
When the clock hits 2:30 a.m., I rise from the couch, and stalk toward my car. As I sit behind the steering wheel, a war begins. Turn right for my chosen victim—the convenient one—or left for the man I want to kill.
The question gnaws at me until I feel sick. My chest is so tight, I’m sure it’ll tear if I breathe too hard. Every inch of my makeup is telling me to hunt Jack down. It’s a soul-deep need. A blinding fucking itch that I need to scratch.
But if I go to Norton tonight, I’ll lose everything. He may have told everyone it wasn’t me who attacked him, but he’s shown just how quickly people will turn on me.
So, when I back out of my driveway and drive to my chosen substitute, that reluctance eats at me.
I don’t need to do this.
And yet I do.
It’s quiet in the car. Almost deafeningly so. I can hear every beat of my heart, the blood rushing through my ears, the tires rolling along the ground, and when the car finally comes to a stop, I feel one thing: resolute.
This is necessary. For me and for Mina. Thomas isn’t competition or an obstacle. He’s a nuisance, and it’s my job to make my girl’s life better.
I take one last breath, then get out of the car, pulling a pair of gloves on, then a ski mask. It’s easy enough to climb the fence into his backyard.
With no one to witness what I’m about to do, I kneel in front of his back door with a tool in each hand.
Lock picking—God, I fucking hate it. I haven’t needed to do this in months. Once I got my hands on a key to Mina’s place, there was really no use to keep honing my skills, and it turns out, my muscles have no memory of ever doing this.
I huff, trying again.
I had to practice for days before it was sheer luck that Joyce forgot to lock their door. On the days I couldn’t just turn the handle, I had no choice but to test my inner strength and resort to such tedious methods.
Sweat is gathering between my fucking shoulder blades. Was this always so goddamn hard?
My jaw is screaming at me by the time ten minutes have passed and I’m still trying to get the fucker open. I drop my hands, screw my eyes shut, and take one long, calming breath, telling myself Norton is on the other side of this door.
Bloodlust seems to do the trick. The lock gives way a minute later.
I give the door one last scathing glare before creeping inside.
To no one’s surprise, Thomas’s two bedroom looks like it’s occupied by a man.
There are clothes and empty takeout containers strewn around the place, with décor consisting of a TV on the coffee table, beanbags in place of a couch, and fold-out chairs around the dining table that’s balancing on a folded piece of cardboard.
This is pitiful.
I’m half tempted to walk back out because this is just embarrassing.
Shaking my head, I stalk up the staircase that likely hasn’t seen a vacuum in weeks, and nearly roll my eyes to the sound of Thomas’s snores shaking the walls. I’m putting money on the fucker having sleep apnea.
I follow the sound until I’m watching him from just outside the door. Jack would never live like this. He’s always been tidy and organized. Vanity always kept his space looking new, yet lived in. When we were kids, he’d have one or two posters on the wall, but there was never any clutter.
I found it odd as a kid. Now it makes sense.
Thomas is the opposite in every way.
The longer I stand there, the more the scene morphs into my image. This is Jack’s room. The mess, the empty spaces; it’s how I imagine his mind to be. There just needs to be more rot to make this place in his picture-perfect image.
As I lean into my imagination, the man sleeping in the bed is exactly who I want. The person who turned my family against me. Who’s harassing Mina. Trying to take my life away from me. Who won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Every single one of his indiscretions plays out in front of me.
Doctoring images to make it look like my high school girlfriend was cheating on me.
Throwing away my homework so I’d be stuck in detention and couldn’t hang out with someone who wasn’t him.
Trying to convince me that Sabrina ripped my favorite hoodie when it was him.
Going through my fucking phone and targeting Mina.
Messaging her. Commenting on her posts. Saying vile shit to her. For what? To get back at me? Turn her away from me like he’s successfully managed to do to everyone else?
I don’t think about the next part; it just happens.
My fist collides with his nose, and liquid spurts across the wall. He doesn’t get a chance to make a sound before his teeth break beneath my knuckles. I yank him off the bed and bury my oversized shoes into his stomach, winding him.
The next strike meets his rib cage. It caves beneath my foot, and it’s the first cry he gets out. A second one doesn’t come once the curve between my pointer and thumb meets his throat.
It’s not a stranger struggling beneath me. Those aren’t dark eyes pleading. They’re blue, below a head of brown hair. He’s tall and lean. A face I’ve seen a thousand times before and have featured in too many of my nightmares.
“This is for stealing my parents,” I snarl. His head whips to the side from the blow of my fist, but it isn’t enough. “Threatening my job.” Another punch. “Talking to my sister.” A kick. “Going near my fucking girl.”
Again and again, strike after strike. I can’t feel the ache in my hands or the broken skin along my knuckles. I keep raining down attacks, one right after the other. My lungs burn, and the twinge in my shoulder screams.
But I don’t stop. He deserves this.
Jack deserves this.
Years of pent-up rage come out. The inferno that’s always fueled me seeps from me until the well refuses to cater to my delusions anymore.
The breath rushes out of me, and I stagger back, hitting a wall. My hands tremble as I hold them up to see the dark liquid coating my gloves. I swear I can feel it seeping through the latex and burying into each fold and wrinkle of my skin. His blood. Jack’s.
Cuts and bruises mar his face and bare torso.
I can’t recognize his face. He’s no longer Jack or Thomas, but a disfigured creature I created from my rage, and I’m not content.
His blood seeps onto the carpet, saturating the once-light fabric.
It’s inky black in the darkness. Another matter that doesn’t sate my bloodlust.
I killed a man, and it wasn’t enough. I need more. I need him to be fucking dead.
None of this would’ve happened if she was there at six. He wouldn’t have had to die if she put on that fucking dress and went to dinner with me like we fucking planned.
I stumble out of the room and hang my head back, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs. What must be a whole minute passes before I get myself under control and start knocking things over around the house to make it look like a real home invasion—like on the news.
My hands don’t stop trembling even once I’m in the car, parked in front of my house, replaying tonight’s events in my head.
The screams he could never let out. The terror in his eyes. The choked gasps. The ripple going down my arm with every strike.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and send a single text.
Leo: You fucked up, Mina.