Chapter 22
Twenty-One
Adrian
Ichose this place for a reason — an old marionette theater with busted in windows and faded wallpaper, shadows and ghosts in each corner, cobwebs tangling over every edge. It was a miserable place, once shining and full of life, now dead, decaying.
Fitting.
It wasn’t just that it came up on the market at the right moment for when I was looking for…
well, looking for a lair, a place to take my time, to build and control.
It felt fated. His favorite spot. Jake, my brother, loved it here.
When I saw it on the realtor’s website, a sense of belonging struck me.
Jake and I would come here all the time as children, even though no one else did.
It stayed at least two-thirds empty, too dark and tired, but for us, it was magic.
Watching the marionettes dance across the stage and imagining starting our own theater when we were grownups.
I don’t even know why; neither of us could put a finger on our obsession, and eventually it faded when hormones struck and we decided to hate each other for a while.
Of course that happened; we turned into boring adults. I went into law enforcement, and he’d got a few years into teaching art to high schoolers when he died. He kept his dream alive, teaching our youth to be ambitious, to express themselves through art.
I sought out the worst in society and put them away.
Jake. My little, bright-eyed brother, with so much hope, so much wide-eyed faith in other people that he walked off with a killer.
He wasn’t na?ve, not innocent, just forgiving, easy to lead.
It often took him to great places, hilarious stories, and fun adventures. But that time it led to his death.
We’d grown close, and he came out with my friends often, enjoying the company of one particular detective with long brown hair and a friendly smile. Jake always tagged along to get near my partner, never shy about admitting it.
They were just starting up when it happened.
When he was ripped from me, from us, in the most violent way, by a woman who’d done it many times before. She was vicious, brutal and pure fucking evil. I’d watched her interviews, her apparent apathy and roundabout way of speaking after she was caught.
She spent days at my precinct before being transferred to the county jail. They never let me near her, never even let me watch through the glass. I was grieving, angry and vengeful. So, the big bosses put me on leave. Indefinite leave when I tried to break into her cell half a bottle of vodka deep.
All it did was lead to my festering. Make my insights rot with that need to confront and push her.
Penelope Karner killed my brother and shattered something in me. Snatched away any good.
So I learned, adapted, broke rules and laws to get what I wanted.
I dug into her case files without permission.
And I learned it all. Who she was, where she’d come from, why she said she did it.
She accused Jake of trying to rape her. Every man, she said, had tried to rape her or someone else before she killed them.
Not for a second did I believe that about Jake, no. That wasn’t him. And I doubted he was only her third victim. She’d been too sloppy, too cocky, taking him unplanned, killing with what she had on hand. That was the work of a killer more seasoned. Losing control.
That moment I saw Jake’s autopsy photos, that solidified it for me. The fear and agony frozen on his face, slashes and stabs over all of his body. Her viciousness stained every image, and his pain clawed through to me.
Penelope needed death. The same kind as him. Brutal, prolonged. She needed to know there was nothing she could do.
She needed the type of death that would shock even her, that would bend and break her before her last breath withered from her lungs.
And now she was mine.
I joined the prison guard track to get to her, and it took three years to gain the power I needed to join the right prison. I had to drive past her every day to get to a prison in another town before I finally got the transfer I wanted. It was a miracle my mother never found out she was so close.
It didn’t matter; I had to be ready. For this, for Penelope. To end her.
It didn’t matter that justice had been served. Mine hadn’t.
Since Penelope Karner had murdered my brother, my life had revolved around reaching this very moment.
There she lay, locked in an empty marionette case, her legs tucked up to her belly, rope wrapped around her to keep her in there. The rope dug into the flesh of her limbs, almost too tight, purpling at the edges. Not enough.
It was cramped, way more cramped than the prison cell she’d resided in before. I laughed. She thought she was getting freedom, but it was about to get a hundred times worse. That tree hugging bitch would never see another bit of nature again.
I sighed, stepping away from her and pulling out my ringing phone.
“Hello, my darling,” my mother said, and I smiled at the name. She called her children her darlings, having never taken our father’s name herself. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know if you’ve seen the news,” I said, still staring at my prisoner. “The riot?”
“No…” Mom replied, dubious but already on the move, and I heard her shuffle about and switch on her TV, the local news coverage sounding in the background. “Oh gosh, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “But tied up. It won’t be in the news, but we’re transporting some of the prisoners across the state. I’m leaving for a bit to help out. But I’ll be back soon. I just didn’t want you to worry about me.”
The riot had been a damn boon. I’d been waiting for the right moment, ready and biding my time, knowing it would be soon.
The food shortages, the angry inmates and the chaos — it was all too perfect.
Fucking fated. Penelope Karner was supposed to be mine to control.
And I would, I would control everything down to her very last breath.
There was nothing good about her, just cold, death-giving brutality that I needed to take from the world more than I needed to breathe. Only then would the tightness in my chest loosen.
“Okay, as long as you’re being safe,” Mom said, distracted, her focus on the TV. I hadn’t looked at much beyond the fact that it was still dragging out. It didn’t matter anymore. Neither of us were ever going back.
There was no life after this.
“I am. Love you, mom.”
“Love you too, darling.”
I hung up. I had to.
Because the little killer was waking up.