Chapter 15
Luke
I finish up Mrs. Mather’s fence. Head to my next job.
The gym reeks of cedar and sweat and money. It’s the kind of place that hides its aggression behind designer towels and ambient spa music. But underneath, it’s all the same. Men who pay two hundred dollars a month to grunt at their own reflections and call it discipline. Men like Ryan McCall.
I drove two hours into the city for this. Two hours of concrete and entitlement thickening in the air the closer you get. I hate the city. I hate what it does to people—the way it convinces them proximity to power is the same thing as having it.
But Ryan lives here. So here I am.
I walk past the front desk without signing in. No one stops me. I know the layout already—steam room to the left, locker room beyond that. Ryan’s in the steam room, like he always is at this time. Creatures of habit make my job easier.
His father-in-law didn’t give me specifics. Didn’t need to. “He puts his hands on her” was enough. The old man didn’t want police involved. Didn’t want lawyers. Didn’t want his daughter’s name in a divorce filing that would end up on Page Six.
He wanted a message delivered.
That’s what I do. I deliver messages.
I sit on the bench outside the steam room, elbows on knees, hat pulled low. No one looks twice. Gray hoodie. Gym bag. Just another guy killing time.
I wait.
When Ryan emerges, he’s flushed, slick with sweat. White towel riding low. Another towel around his neck. Expensive watch still on—men like him never take off the things that tell you what they’re worth. He’s texting someone. Smiling at the screen.
Probably not his wife.
I follow him into the locker room.
He doesn’t see me until I speak.
“Ryan.”
He turns. Slow. Annoyed first. Then confused. Then wary.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But don’t worry—we’re about to fix that.”
That lands. I see it in the way his shoulders shift. The way his hand tightens on his phone.
He straightens. Tries to square up like this is going to be a conversation between equals. It’s not.
I step forward, crowding his space. Voice even. Calm.
“You’re going to stop putting your hands on her.”
He tries to bluff. “I don’t know what you—”
I grab the front of his towel and twist. Hard.
He chokes on whatever lie he was building.
I shove him back into the lockers—metal buckling against his spine—and hold him there.
His feet scramble on the wet tile. One of his hands grabs my wrist. The other drops his phone.
It cracks on the floor, screen splintering into a little web of light.
Shame about the phone.
Not really.
I bring my elbow across his ribs. Left side.
Short, controlled. The kind of strike that doesn’t look like much but collapses the architecture underneath.
He gasps—mouth open, no sound coming out.
I wait for it to register. Then I do it again.
Same spot, half an inch lower. The second one crunches.
There it is. That dull, wet pop, like stepping on a walnut shell wrapped in a towel.
His knees buckle but I’ve still got a fistful of terrycloth so he hangs there, pinned against the locker like something mounted on a wall.
His eyes are wide. Wet. The kind of look you only see when a man realizes his money can’t follow him into a room like this.
I get close. Close enough that he can smell the coffee I had this morning.
“That was a conversation,” I say. “Next time’s a funeral.”
He nods. Or tries to. Hard to tell with the way his body’s shaking.
I let go. He slides down the locker face in a long, slow streak of sweat and lands bare-assed on the tile. His towel’s gone. Good. Humiliation sticks longer than bruises.
I step over him. There’s a sink around the corner.
I turn the water on, scrub my knuckles. One of his teeth must’ve grazed me—or maybe that’s the locker edge.
The water runs pink, then clear. I dry my hands on a paper towel, check my reflection.
No blood on my face. No scratches. Nothing that would make someone look twice.
My phone buzzes.
Marin.
I answer. “Yeah?”
“Hey, so—quick question.” Her voice is bright. Too bright. The kind of bright that people use when they’ve rehearsed what they’re about to say. “How soon could you take on something new? Not huge. Just—a project in the basement.”
I glance back toward the locker room. Ryan’s still on the floor, breathing like a punctured tire.
“What kind of project?”
“Soundproofing,” she says. “I need to set up a proper workspace down there. Client calls, virtual meetings—you know how it is. Right now every creak in the house ends up on the call. It’s impossible to sound professional.”
Her voice does something on the phone it doesn’t do in person. Softer. A little lower. Like she’s lying in bed and doesn’t realize I can hear the sheets. Or she does realize. With Marin, it’s hard to tell which is worse.
“Soundproofing’s not cheap,” I say.
“I know. I don’t care. I just need it done. Sooner the better.” A pause. She catches herself. Dials it back. “I mean—whenever you have the time. No rush.”
No rush. But also sooner the better. Women like Marin don’t know how to need things quietly.
“I can come take a look,” I say. “Tomorrow work?”
“Tomorrow’s perfect.” Relief bleeding through the polish. “Thank you. Really.”
She hangs up. No goodbye. Just the click of disconnection.
I pocket the phone.
Behind me, Ryan McCall is still curled on the tile. Naked. Broken. Breathing in short little sips like the air itself hurts. He’ll heal. Ribs always do.
But he’ll remember.
I walk out the way I came in. No one notices. No one stops me.
It’s not murder.
Just a message.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.