2. LANDON
I stared down at the mess I'd made, and a cold dread began settling in.
I had to get out of here fast. I'd really fucked up this time.
Danielle deserved what she got, but she certainly wasn't worth prison time.
It was only a matter of time before she missed her monthly dinner with Alex, and he'd start snooping.
That overbearing prick was always too involved, always checking in on her, always up her ass.
He wasn't much of a detective if he hadn't noticed anything over the years.
"I need to wash this goddamn blood off my hands," I muttered, staring at the blood stains on my hands and shirt.
I dug into the stain, the rag twisting in my fist as I worked in frantic circles to remove the evidence.
There was more blood than usual, far more.
Even the stupid exfoliating soap Danielle always bought was useless; the stain was already setting into my skin.
I gave up trying to get clean and yanked open a drawer, shoving clothes into a bag without folding, without thinking, just moving, grabbing anything I could get my hands on in a matter of minutes.
I emptied the safe, even taking a moment to smash the photo of Danielle and me on the nightstand.
Maybe that would throw the cops off the scent, make them think it was a robbery gone bad, buy myself a few more precious minutes to escape.
"Fuck it. I'm running out of time," I yanked my phone from my pocket, fumbling my fingers across the screen as I tried to dial Liam’s number. It took forever for that worthless asshole to answer.
"Hello?"
"What took you so long? Forget it. I need your car. Now. I need to get out of here."
"Don't you have a car?"
"I can't use mine, idiot! They'll be looking for it. They won't be looking for yours."
"Jesus Christ, Landon. What the hell did you do now?" My asshole brother's sarcastic tone grated on my nerves. Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, with his perfect house, job, and family. He always acted like a saint, forgetting his own past.
"I went too far, Liam. Too fucking far. But that bitch… she just pushed me over the edge."
"Landon…is she dead?" The fear in his voice was palpable enough to make me stop and think. The image of her beaten face, covered in blood, flashed in my mind, and I realized I didn't even know the answer.
"I…don't know, okay? I don't fucking know. But I'm not sticking around to find out. Just get me the hell out of here." I slammed the phone down onto the bed and resumed stuffing my belongings into my bag.
There was a lot more that I didn’t know beyond that one question. I didn't know how things had spiraled this far.
When I met Danielle…God, when I met her, I was fucking smitten.
She consumed me. I remember everything about that day, three years ago, at a friend's wedding, right down to the smell of her perfume.
I sat at a table, captivated, watching her dance the entire reception.
She was breathtaking in that black dress, a single yellow ribbon in her hair.
Absolutely gorgeous. And I knew the instant I saw her that I had to have her.
That part was easy. She was a bridesmaid, I was a groomsman, and everyone knows how much women love a good “I met him at a wedding” love story. A little charm, a drink from the bar, and she was mine.
My old life became irrelevant the moment she entered it.
I did try to lead a normal, honest life for her.
I got a job as a mechanic, the only real skill I had outside of getting away with various crimes.
Life was boring and mundane, but great, for a while; at least the first few months.
But the power, the money, the thrill of being a criminal was nagging, lingering in the whispers of my thoughts, like my brain had an itch that only crime could scratch. It crept its way back into my life.
I would have given it all up for her, but she never asked, and I lacked the courage to man up and walk away.
I wanted it all—the money, the thrill, and her.
At first, she knew nothing about my work, and those were the good times.
She just thought I had a high-paying job.
But then I got careless—leaving bands of money around the house, phone calls that got a little less discreet, my lies started tripping over themselves—and she found out.
That's when she became a liability. With that god damn detective for a brother, if she left, I was done for. I knew I had to find a way to either make her love what I did or make her believe she had no choice but to stay. She could have ruined everything.
That's when I became someone I never intended to be with her—a monster. I systematically tore her down, chipping away at her spirit every fucking day. Little comments about how useless she was, or how she wasn’t as pretty or as skinny anymore, tore her confidence down to a level where I had made her believe she’d never find anyone better than me.
A misplaced word, a sideways glance, earned her a swift punch to the face.
I was careful, never leaving a mark visible before her monthly dinner with Alex.
She was too terrified to report anything.
She stopped smiling, stopped talking, and stopped seeing her friends.
The apartment became her prison; her one escape was her visits with Alex, and if she didn’t have to keep up the appearance to Alex that everything was okay, I doubt she would have left at all.
The more she learned, the more she begged me to leave that life, and the more I resented her.
It became easier to break her, to keep her trapped.
She stopped working. Nothing mattered to her anymore.
Not that any of that mattered now. If I didn't get out, I was a dead man.
It was already seven o'clock. She was supposed to meet Alex at seven.
Her phone would ring any minute, and if she didn't answer, he'd be here.
I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder, then grabbed the blood-soaked baseball bat, clutching it in my other hand.
As I stepped over her to leave, I heard a quick, clipped exhale slip from her lips.
Looking down, I saw her trying to move her head.
The blood was everywhere, her eyes swollen shut.
Honestly, I was surprised she was still alive.
"Why the fuck did you tell me you were going to tell Alex?
Are you that fucking stupid?" She didn't answer, not that I expected her to.
I couldn't even look at her. I'd gone too far.
I stepped over her and walked out of the bedroom, the time now almost 7:15.
Alex would be here any minute, and Liam was already outside waiting.
"Pop the trunk," I barked, throwing the bat and my bag into the trunk before slamming it shut and jumping into the passenger seat.
I couldn't even look at Liam. I knew what he was thinking, and I was in no mood to hear it. I stared straight ahead, not really seeing anything, hoping he wouldn't speak.
Liam was the smart one; he'd gotten out years ago and built a life with a wife, kids, and a nine-to-five job, but he was still cleaning up my messes. Part of me envied how easily he gave up everything for his wife; it was something I could never seem to do.
"Landon…" he began.
I cut him off. I didn't want to hear it.
"Just drive to your house. I'll drop you off and give you money for a new car."
I could have given him enough cash for a better car and not even missed it. It was one of the perks of the drug trade. Buy low, sell high. I always kept a hundred thousand on hand. Danielle hated it. I used to care that she hated it, but that was a long time ago.
Liam sighed. It was one of those deep, heart-wrenching sounds that just screamed of disappointment. I still couldn't look at him. I used to resent him for leaving, but I couldn't bring myself to hate him; his departure amplified my own sense of failure.
"I don't care about the car, Landon. What the fuck are you doing with your life? What did you do to Danielle?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm going to get her back."
"Excuse me?” Now I had done it. He was pissed. And loud. He slammed on the brakes in the middle of the side street, parked the car, and positioned himself toward me, staring me dead in my fucking eyes.
“What the fuck did you just say? Landon, are you insane? You didn't even check if she was alive after… after whatever you just did, and you're already planning on winning her back?"
That was the first time I looked at him, and I regretted it the moment our eyes locked.
The disappointment plastered on his face was brutal.
He was right; maybe I was insane. There was a time when I would have given my life for Danielle.
Now, I didn't even know if she was alive, and it was all my fault.
"She was breathing when I left," was all I could manage to say.
Liam stared at me in silence for another few seconds before positioning himself forward again and putting the car in drive. He coasted down the street and turned onto the main road before he responded.
"Jesus Christ, Landon, did you even call anyone?" I could hear the panic in Liam’s voice, the fear of being dragged into something he couldn't escape.
"Alex will be there any minute. She was supposed to meet him at seven. He'll go looking for her when she doesn't show."
The rest of the drive was silent. I was still too pissed off and too ashamed to say anything. Nothing I could say would excuse what I'd done, no matter how much of a bitch Danielle had been.
Liam and I used to be close, thick as thieves even.
Growing up, I always knew he was the golden child, the favorite brother.
He spent years cleaning up my messes to shield me from our dad's abusive punishments. When we got older, Dad blamed me for Liam’s drug dealing, as if he were incapable of making his own choices.
I never understood how Liam could walk away from it all, but I did know two things for certain as I left him in his driveway, a wad of cash in his hand, and drove off: I wasn't getting caught, and I had no intention of winning Danielle back. I was taking her back.