Chapter 13 The Present #2
Of course he hasn’t. Men like Mark never do.
I don’t need to read the books to know exactly who he is.
He chose a lane and welded himself to it for life.
I’ve watched him for five years. The only real difference between the life he has now and the life he had with me is the woman standing beside him.
Jessica is very compliant.
Maybe it’s because she met him when he was already polished and established. She wanted the life he could offer her. I met him when he still remembered how to pretend he had a heart, and he made me believe he’d never change.
“We thought we’d start with the crows,” Talon says, nodding toward the windows.
I follow his gaze.
A black tide of wings blots out the glass.
My stomach twists. “Use them?”
“They follow you,” Nathaniel says, flattening a paper with those precise surgeon’s hands of his. “If we go to him, they’ll go too. And he knows what he’s done. That will scare him.”
“I tried that before.”
“Not with this many,” he counters.
He’s right. Back then there were maybe twenty crows circling the willow tree—barely a whisper compared to this storm. Mark would stand under them with that empty, stainless-steel expression of his. No shame. No fear. Just that cold void where a conscience should live.
Talon flashes a feral grin. “Picture it, babe—golden boy’s perfect little suburban castle buried in feathers and shit, him stumbling into the driveway screaming at the sky—”
“He wouldn’t scream,” I say.
Because I know him. He’d stand there in his suit and tie beside his perfect little Stepford wife and pretend it was a mild inconvenience. A leaf blower problem. Nothing more.
“Oh, he’ll scream,” Nathaniel says. “Maybe not then. But once we bring him here…”
“Wait.” I blink. “You want to bring him here?”
“We’d gladly extract some punishment if you permit us,” Cassian says. “Of course, only if you allow it. If not, we’ll do as you say.”
My hands go damp.
Of course I want them to torture the fucker. I want it so hard my palms sweat.
But how do we even get to that?
Mark is paranoid when it comes to shady men. After Duvall, his danger tingle got amped. He’s not that easy to bend anymore.
“What we do with him once we capture him is one thing,” I murmur.
“But he takes his safety very seriously. I’ve never seen him open the door when someone rang.
It was always Jessica. Even when someone needed his signature, she took the paper in and brought it to his office.
The neighbors are vigilant, too. Whatever you have planned… ”
Nathaniel lifts a sheet from the table and slides it to me: a satellite image of the neighborhood.
“This is where your grave is,” he says, pointing.
“What?” I take the paper.
“It just so happens…” He taps a black dot three blocks over, “that the State Historic Preservation Office found an indigenous gravesite nearby six months ago.”
Cassian flips to a printed email chain. The letterhead is the local university’s anthropology department. I catch the phrase: possible prehistoric mound disturbance.
“We were looking for a way to thread a lie into Mark’s life so we could do whatever you wanted,” Nathaniel continues.
“We could pose as archaeologists wanting to dig because of research. We could claim an anonymous tip about bones. We could make Jessica invite us in. We could seed rumours so fear creeps in slowly. Either way, we have an in. Possibilities are endless with this little coincidence.”
“I don’t understand.” I swallow.
I read the printout harder. The article’s tone is bland and official: State funding for an exploratory dig; consultation pending with tribal representatives; restricted access to the site.
“Here’s the thing about land,” Nathaniel says.
“You may own it on paper, but histories don’t always match deeds.
Developers, councils, university researchers…
None of them want the accusation of a cover-up.
If the SHPO opens an inquiry, it triggers protocols.
Work stops. Journalists sniff. Contractors get cold feet.
And once it’s public, every reporter and armchair historian with a camera goes looking. ”
“It’s even better if it’s on private property,” Talon adds with a grin. “That’s when everyone goes crazy.”
I stare at them. “This feels like a… big operation.”
“It is,” Nathaniel admits. He pulls a flash drive from the pile and taps it once against his palm.
“I mocked up a proposal already — standard GPR survey request, preliminary scope, the whole thing. Fabricated ground-penetrating radar scans that show anomalous subsurface reflections. Soil-sample reports with ‘inconclusive’ language. A university ‘research interest’ letter that looks plausible enough to make the SHPO take notice. If the paperwork looks authentic, institutions act on formality more than truth.”
He watches me. I can see the calculus: produce paper, make a call, let the bureaucracy do the rest.
“The public crucifixion is the blunt instrument,” he continues.
“Make Mark look like he knew about the burial but ignored it to inherit the house after you. Paper trail, press, outrage. He loses reputation, partners, maybe his licenses. You get people digging up his yard, opening his life in public, and boom, turns out there was a burial. Just not the one everyone thought.”
“His crime will get out,” Cassian says.
“The scandal will go nationwide, baby,” Talon supplies.
“Anyway… That’s the public route,” Nathaniel says, folding his arms. His voice is flat now, businesslike. “There’s also the private option.”
“Private?” I echo.
“We use the dig as cover,” Cassian says. “We show up as researchers responding to a complaint. We render Mark unconscious, take paperwork and drives, plant accounting fraud on devices we keep to later ‘discover,’ scare Jessica off, and bring Mark here. Basement.”
A shiver claws down my spine. They’ve considered how each piece could work.
Both options gleam with terrible promise.
But I have so many questions.
“About the public way…” I breathe, hand at my forehead. “Wouldn’t state or federal agencies trace fabricated data?”
Nathaniel leans forward. “There are risks. GPR data can be faked, but the metadata needs cleaning. We’d scrub EXIF tags, use anonymized comms, burn phones we can’t trace.
We’d spoof email headers, route uploads through throwaway accounts and Tor nodes.
We’ve considered physical surveillance: cameras at the property, patrol routes, the local precinct’s usual checks.
We’d need to intercept or distract those, which raises the stakes. ”
I don’t understand half of what he says, but the admission is clear: the more complicated the fraud, the more opportunities for a slip.
“And if it unravels?” I ask. “If they trace it back?”
“That’s a risk we are willing to take,” Talon replies. “Public humiliation leaves a trail. But the consequences for Mark are immediate.”
“We know Mark worships his public image,” Nathaniel says. “We figured that’s the part you want torn out.”
Do I? I need to think.
It’s true: Mark is nothing without his public image.
He eats and sleeps the narrative. But initially, I never thought I’d be able to recreate it in the afterlife.
I always imagined it would just be me, him, and the intensity of the feelings I felt when he betrayed me, just thrown at him over and over again.
I’d force him to experience what I experienced, until he’d realize how awful it was.
But I don’t want my men to get in trouble.
“Just for your information…” Nathaniel slides another sheet across the table and taps a headline.
“Illinois, three years ago. Guy swings a detector, says he finds a burial mound in someone’s backyard.
Turned out to be a collapsed storm pipe.
Didn’t matter — neighborhood shut down for months.
Lawsuits. Special reports. People still talk about it. ”
I stare at the paper until the words blur.
It’s so absurd.
But it exists.
Nathaniel lays out a grainy clipping: Possible Native Burial Ground Halts Housing Development. I don’t need to read it to understand.
“It really seems to work, huh?” I mutter.
“Like clockwork,” Talon says.
A moment of silence stretches. All I can hear is my heart beating and the crows outside. Time thins, and before I know it my guys’ smiles slip into frowns; they look at me with worry in their eyes.
“Do you dislike it?” Nathaniel asks.
“We thought it might make you happy,” Cassian says. “Did we overestimate it?”
“Guys, I knew we should have gone for the Jessica operation instead.” Talon grimaces. “That way it would feel more poetic. From one wife to the other.”
I arch a brow. “Jessica operation?”
Talon blows out a breath. “We’d kidnap her, demand ransom, force him to admit his crimes on a live stream, and—eventually—kill him. Simple. Very public. Very satisfying.”
Yeah, right. As if that wouldn’t leave a digital footprint the size of a country.
I don’t want the three of them at risk.
I want revenge, but not at their cost.
“No, that’s…” I fold my knees to my chest and hug them. “That’s not better. I just…” My tongue feels thick. “I don’t want you guys to get in trouble because of me.”
It sounds ridiculous, I know. They’ve killed before and never been caught. But back at the Candy Maker case I felt them pushing the edges. They were reckless in ways that made my skin crawl. Now, with me tangled up in this, I’m afraid they'll do something stupid just to please me.
Talon said he’d burn the world for me.
But if he burns the world there will be nothing left for us. No plants, no water, no food, no future. We’d die right along with it.
“Well, that’s sweet,” Cassian says. “But as long as you get your revenge, doing this is worth whatever it may bring.”
“I agree,” Nathaniel echoes.
“Not me,” I say softly, and mean it. “I want you safe.”
“And if we are?” Talon asks. “Is this something you’d like?”
I look at them, really look, and answer from the hollow and the hunger inside me.
“Yes,” I say.
Talon straightens, sets his hands on his hips, and nods. “Well then, gentlemen… I suppose the private route it is. We just have to figure out a way not to get caught.”
And just like that, the killers who once bound me and made my afterlife a living hell began to fight for my revenge.
My heart pounds.
It sings.
For them, all over again.
The four of us are coming for Mark.
And we won’t stop until we catch him.