Chapter 3
Angel
People are pawns.
A means to an end.
Their fears aren’t my problem.
I learned that long ago.
My father taught me.
My grandfather taught me.
I was a great student.
But every once in a while, the ghost of my mother haunts me.
Every once in a while, she tries to slip that white cape over my shoulders.
It doesn’t cover my black heart for very long. It burns away into ashes quickly.
Tonight, as I sit outside the hospital where Greta took that bruised little girl, I’m struggling to untie the knot around my throat.
It’s choking me, cutting off the air and circulation.
It refuses to burn, and I hate my mother a little more because of it.
I don’t deserve this. I’m a good wife, a good mother.
I blink away the image of her on her hands and knees, a cut on her jaw as she cleaned up the broken vase my father threw at her because he had to wait a few minutes for dinner to be ready.
Women will never learn.
I sneered at the thoughts of her.
It’s your fault, I told her at five years old.
The words were hard then, but by seven, they flowed easily from my mouth. Those words earned me praise from my father, and I learned quickly that praise would always be better than what my mother was getting from him.
White knuckles grip the steering wheel as I battle the two men inside of me.
One man doesn’t give a shit. That little girl is only one in millions that doesn’t have a perfect life. Who cares what happens to her?
The other man, the one that rarely pokes his head out of my subconscious, screams at me that she deserves better. He places blame on me for not acting sooner, for not putting a bullet in Varon’s head the day I showed up in Telluride.
Most days, he’s easy to silence.
Tonight, he’s louder than he’s ever been, and I hate him more than ever.
Decision made, if only to ease the internal battle, I climb out of my truck and head inside the hospital.
I knew this was coming. I knew when I went back to my hotel and dressed in slacks and what many consider a nice button-down shirt that this was the direction I was heading, and I hate the time that I’ve wasted debating it.
This problem could’ve been solved hours ago if I hadn’t fought so hard against it.
Dutifully, I head to the gift shop, voicing my thanks when the clerk tells me they were about to close, but she’ll give me time to pick out a gift.
Thankful for shopping during business hours despite them not being scheduled to close for ten minutes is expected, so I offer it.
Telling her that the sign on the fucking door says open wouldn’t go over well.
It would draw attention, and that’s the last thing I need tonight.
I don’t speak as I pay cash for the small, stuffed cat.
The goal is to always be as unremarkable as possible. People shouldn’t remember me.
Average height, average build. I look just like everyone else.
Brown hair. Brown eyes. Boring.
I’m not worth a second glance as I climb off the elevator in my plaid shirt and chinos. My shoes don’t even make noise on the linoleum.
I don’t fidget or let anyone catch me looking around. I don’t make eye contact with anyone.
When questioned what time they went on break and if they saw anything suspicious, the nurses and other hospital staff won’t even be able to remember they saw me.
The placard outside her door lists two patients—Katie Matson and Jane Doe.
Bingo.
Like I suspected with the influx of flu cases every medical facility has seen since Thanksgiving, I’m easily able to slip inside her room unseen.
The other little girl in the room might pose an issue as she watches me walk past her bed, but I won’t worry about that until she becomes a problem. I’m not one to look for complications before they occur. Wasting energy won’t do me any good.
Blue eyes, one encircled by various shades of purple and blue, blink at me when I pull back the curtain separating the two beds in the room.
To her credit, she doesn’t jolt or look terrified.
She also doesn’t smile when I hold out the stuffed animal.
She takes it dutifully, her fingers barely clasping the faux fur.
She’s been taught not to cherish things, not to show emotion until she knows what’s expected of her.
Varon was an excellent teacher.
I hold my hand out.
She takes it bravely, but the tremble in her tiny fingers betrays her fear.
The stuffed animal is forgotten on the bed, and I make no effort to retrieve it.
Security cameras will explain exactly what happened here tonight.
“Is that your daddy?”
My eyes snap to the other little girl in the other bed as we walk toward the door.
What I wasn’t yet worried about has now become a complication.
The little girl standing by my side squeezes my hand, as if telling me not to hurt anyone because she’ll take care of it. Her bravery stuns me for a second. I never would’ve chanced pain or punishment at her age for anyone.
“Yes,” the little girl at my side answers before looking back up at me.
I smile down at her, the action foreign on my face before I urge her out of the room, looking toward the nurses’ station to make sure the coast is clear.
She’s slow, her injuries making her little face scrunch in pain, but she never complains. Not a single hiss of discomfort leaves her lips, not even when I sweep her up in my arms in the elevator because she’s moving too slowly, not when I shove her into the back seat of my truck.
She’s brave. I’ll give her that.
Bravery is stupid, however.
Bravery can get you killed when facing your teacher.
Do your worst.
Those were my mother’s last words. She challenged my father.
It was the only time he obeyed her.
“Seatbelt,” I snap when those blue eyes just stare up at me.
Taking a little girl from a hospital isn’t even close to the worst thing I’ve ever done. Hell, I don’t think it makes it into the top ten, but my own hands are trembling as I pull out of the hospital parking lot.
The shake doesn’t ease until I’m heading south.
“Do you need something to eat?” I growl.
Blue eyes blink at me in the rearview mirror before her little head shakes.
“Do you need something to drink?”
Another shake of her head.
“Bathroom?”
Those blue eyes widen slightly before she shakes her head this time.
Varon may be one of the best teachers I’ve seen, but the fear in her eyes, the bruises marring her skin, makes me rageful.
Children are meant to be taught, not hurt.
Those words came from my father.
His father didn’t have the same mindset.
The itch to kill grows with each passing mile, and I only start to feel relief when the little girl closes her eyes, exhaustion winning against her desperate need to anticipate what’s coming next.
I refuse to analyze why I do it, but I slow down, cautious of the dips and bumps in the road.
I know what it’s like to sleep with one eye open.
I’ve done it my entire life.
She deserves a little respite from the pain she’s suffered.
The cape knotted around my neck eases a little with what I’ve done tonight.