Chapter 1
Angel
Numbness.
Most people feel it at some point in their lives.
They try to chase it away.
They medicate.
They seek happiness.
They seek pain.
Anything to just… feel.
I live in a constant state of emptiness.
It’s the only way I feel at home.
Silence.
Solitude.
Seclusion.
Only the constant itch of needing more pulls me from isolation.
More pain.
More violence.
More lessons.
This is what I fill up on.
This is what I devour.
All things I learned from birth.
My father taught me lessons.
My grandfather taught me lessons.
It’s my turn to teach, to punish.
William Varon is my latest pupil, and the sight of his ostentatious home makes my skin crawl.
The landscaping, the welcome mat, the flimsy curtains that are always pulled back in invitation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. What lies behind the walls would make any normal person sick to their stomach.
It’s a good thing I’m not normal.
From the outside, the man looks like a model citizen.
He smiles and laughs at all the right times and greets people by name when he sees them on the sidewalk.
He donates to charity, buys girl scout cookies, and drops money in the iconic red kettles during the holidays.
He’s normal, a successful businessman, a philanthropist.
That’s what others see.
That’s what he wants them to see.
People can’t see past the gleaming smile to the darkness inside of him.
They don’t know what happens in the dark, what he’s capable of behind the fancy double doors of his home.
They don’t have a clue that he’s a third-generation abuser, a sex trafficker.
They would be surprised to discover he has a woman enslaved inside, that he’s purchased a little girl meant for unmentionable things.
They would probably be appalled, disgusted, downright sickened by the lessons he’s taught to those he has owned over the years.
If she had just done what I said.
Women will never learn.
As those thoughts invade, my heart kicks up a notch.
It’s not that he’s teaching them that bothers me.
It’s that they aren’t his to teach.
The woman’s husband hired me, contracted me for my skills.
I need my wife back, he’d said to me after I found his plea online.
I don’t care that he sold her in the first place because he was disgusted with her. It’s not my business.
Women will never learn.
Sometimes you have to cut your losses. Trade up. Replace.
Out with the old and in with new and all that.
The husband isn’t even happy about his request. He’s being forced into it. Greta Murphy gone is more of a problem for him than when she was at his feet, begging to be set free.
Greta’s family has the money, and without her, his coffers are running dry.
I guess he has learned his own lesson.
His money is as green as the next person’s and staying on the right side of moral issues has never been my thing.
Green is my thing.
Green is my favorite color.
It speaks the only language I know fluently.
It’s my more, the only thing I answer to now.
The little girl isn’t my concern.
I wasn’t hired for her.
She doesn’t provide me with more.
Greta, however, took pity on the child, carrying her bruised body out of the house and to the hospital, despite the lessons she’ll be taught for intervening.
I’ve been watching William Varon for the last two weeks, waiting for the perfect time to grab my paycheck so I can move on to the next job.
He’s the ultimate teacher, confident in the education of his pupils. He manages to keep his lessons hidden, keep his students from speaking, keep his marks hidden.
He’s so certain of his skills that he allows others into his home, unafraid that his purchases will ask for help.
Several days ago, he had lunch with an old friend.
Sylvie Davis, a former resident of Telluride, Colorado, entered his house and left unscathed, unbothered by what she saw inside.
It seems Varon is picky, selective in his endeavors. She must not have qualified.
Or maybe he was aware of Sylvie’s connection to the Cerberus MC, a club of do-good bikers from Farmington, New Mexico. The man who accompanied her to town didn’t hide who he was. His leather cut with the three-headed dog on the back was on his body every second he was in public.
Cerberus MC is known for rescuing trafficked women. They aren’t big on the same type of lessons that William Varon is.
Soft touches, compassion, and shelter from harm are more their style.
I’ve kept in the shadows, postponing my payday to avoid Cerberus.
If they have their sights set on Greta Murphy and the little girl, I know to keep my distance.
I’ve been tangled up in their messes before and it left me with two holes in my chest.
I learned that lesson quickly.
Sylvie and her Cerberus escort, Dylan “Spade” Pratt, left days ago, and they haven’t been back.
The club must not be as good as everyone thinks because two potential clients were right under their noses and they walked away.
Their loss is my gain.
I watched Greta reenter the house last night after leaving the girl on the sidewalk outside the hospital.
She could’ve kept on walking, could’ve easily jumped on a bus headed out of town, or walked into the police station and told her story, opening the eyes of the town to who William Varon really is.
Maybe here is better than home.
It doesn’t matter to me.
Greta Murphy isn’t paying me. Her husband is. I follow the money. Always.
Varon returned home not long after Greta reentered the house, leaving a few short hours later. She didn’t leave with him.
I didn’t follow him this time.
My paycheck was left inside.
I waited.
And waited.
Even as the sun rises, he hasn’t returned.
His routine is off.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve observed. I know his schedule as well as he does.
Yet, I still wait.
Getting sloppy only means trouble.
A lesson that took me a few tries to learn.
Midday sun beats down on my back, the leafless trees providing only minimal coverage.
It isn’t until afternoon that I move, ignoring the ache in my muscles for standing still for so long as I inch closer to the home.
If Greta feels like she’s better off here than back in Wyoming with her husband, it could mean trouble for me, but I’m always prepared. A kicking, screaming, crying woman isn’t new to me.
I go over the list of items concealed in my pockets. I’m all stocked up on tape, rope, and a mild sedative just in case she isn’t agreeable.
The back door doesn’t make a sound as I push it open. It not being locked doesn’t concern me. Varon is so assured of his teachings, he doesn’t have to cage his pupils. They know not to wander too far from their master.
Silence, exactly the way I like it, engulfs me as I step inside, and I take a moment to breathe it in.
The kitchen is spotless, as I would expect it to be.
The foyer, dining room, and formal living area are just as pristine.
Greta looks like a goddess on the marble stairs, hair fanned around her shoulders like a blonde halo.
With her eyes wide open, I wonder for a brief moment what her last thoughts were, what she saw before being taught her final lesson.
Did she beg or accept her fate for breaking his rules?
Did she wish she’d kept going after dropping the little girl off at the hospital, or was she grateful that her education was complete?
I pull out my phone, my teeth grinding as I type out the message. Wife dead, transaction refunded.
My skin crawls with irritation as I go through the steps of sending Henry Murphy his money back, each second spent hating the bullshit satisfaction or your money-back guarantee promise that comes with each of my jobs.
What kind of educator would I be if I didn’t suffer from my own mistakes, if there wasn’t punishment for my own errors?
Sunlight from the expansive windows casts Greta in a radiant glow, glinting off the knife sunk deep in her chest.
There’s a certain kind of beauty in death.
The silence.
The splashes of red were a magnificent contrast to the gray of her skin.
Pretty blue eyes open and knowing.
“Women will never learn,” I mutter, before turning and walking out the front door.