CHAPTER 16 #3
I stared at her for a long, quiet moment.
I searched her face for signs of trauma, for the impending psychological collapse that usually accompanies a person’s first taking of a human life.
I saw none. I saw a woman who had crossed the threshold of victimhood and claimed her absolute, unyielding agency.
"For a good cause, Ciara," I said, my voice solemn, absolute, and unshakeable. "And if it helps... I’m a killa too."
Ciara’s head snapped toward me, her dark eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock. She stared at my face as if searching for a punchline, waiting for the therapist to laugh and tell her it was a metaphor.
"You’re a killa? How come?" she asked, her voice tight, vibrating with a volatile mix of disbelief and intense curiosity.
"For a good cause, of course," I replied smoothly, my tone as relaxed as if I were offering her a cup of tea. I stood up from the leather sofa, leaving her with her thoughts for a brief second. "But that’s a story for another time. Right now, we should dispose of this body before the sun comes up."
My surgical stencil knife was still resting on the small dark cloth on the balcony table, its tungsten carbide blade painted in thick, drying crimson.
I went out there and reached down, picking it up by the cross-hatched handle, feeling the familiar, grounding weight of the metal.
I turned on my heel and walked into the kitchen toward the stainless-steel sink.
Ciara stood up from the couch, her torn pink robe trailing behind her like a battle-worn banner.
She followed me into the kitchen, stopping at the threshold and folding her arms tightly across her chest. She leaned against the doorframe, her dark, piercing eyes locked onto my hands as I turned on the tap and let a stream of cold water wash over the metal.
"Truth be told... I did feel a sense of thrill when I killed the bastard," Ciara admitted softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of running water.
"Seeing him bleed out... knowing he could never lay a hand on me or you ever again...
it felt like taking my power back. But I'm probably scarred for life now.
" She paused, her gaze dropping to the sink.
"By the way... that knife seems real special to you. "
"It is, Ciara," I said without looking back, grabbing a clean linen towel from the rack and meticulously drying the polished steel, ensuring not a single water spot marred its surface.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned around slowly, holding the gleaming stencil knife casually between my fingers, my light eyes locking directly onto hers.
"So... you want to know about a knife while the dead body of your ex is bleeding out on my balcony?"
"I could care less about Morgan, Joshua," Ciara shot back immediately, her tone sharp, intelligent, and completely devoid of squeamishness. She took two steps into the kitchen, closing the distance between us. "I feel like there is something you’re hiding from me... something deep. And somehow, it’s connected to that knife. "
A small, genuine smile touched the corners of my lips. "Is that your psychological mind talking, Miss Long?"
"Intuition, babe," she said, her eyes narrowing playfully despite the gravity of the room. "You said you were a killa, and I don't think you were simply pulling my legs."
"No," I confessed quietly, setting the dry knife down on the granite counter beside me. I leaned back against the counter, resting my palms on the cool stone, looking deep into her soul. "No, I was not. Remember Martin? The boy I was telling you about who bullied me in primary school?"
Ciara paused, her brow furrowing as her sharp memory retrieved the thread of our past conversation. "Yes... the twelve-year-old who beat you up behind the gym and took a piss on you when you were ten?"
"That's the one," I said, my baritone dropping into a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence.
I looked past her, letting my mind travel back through thirty years of dark, foundational memory.
"I was ten years old," I began, my voice steady, calm, and clinical.
"Martin was a sadistic, oversized brute who made my daily existence an absolute waking nightmare.
One Friday afternoon, he trapped me in the boys' restroom with his gang.
Two of his boys pinned my arms to the tiled wall while Martin beat me until my ribs cracked.
And then, while I was held down gasping for air on the bathroom floor, Martin unzipped his trousers and urinated directly onto my bare chest while his boys stood by and laughed. "
Ciara winced violently, her dark eyes filling with deep, protective empathy and disgust.
"I came home covered in blood, bruises, and urine," I continued.
"My mother—a brilliant, fiercely protective woman who saw the world for the harsh, unforgiving jungle it truly is—washed me clean and marched straight to the principal's office.
She demanded justice for the constant bullying.
But the principal called Martin and his boys into the office.
Martin sat there, looked my mother dead in the eye, and laughed.
He claimed I was a liar and a psycho who had pissed on my own self.
The principal swept it completely under the rug and did nothing, well aware that Martin's father was a big-time, wealthy judge who shielded his son from every consequence. "
I picked up the stencil knife from the counter, holding the tungsten steel up to the warm kitchen light.
"My mother wasn't having it, though. She hated bullies with a burning passion, and she was determined to make Martin regret ever putting his hands on me or pissing on anyone ever again.
She waited for her moment. A week later, while Martin was out cycling through the neighborhood with his boys, she ambushed him.
She clamped a chloroform-soaked rag over his face until he went limp, threw him into the back of her Jeep, and drove him out to an isolated river. "
Ciara stayed completely silent, utterly spellbound, her breath hitched in her throat as she leaned closer.
"When Martin woke up, bound and helpless by the rushing water, my mother reached into her pocket, pulled out this exact surgical stencil knife, and handed it to me," I murmured, my voice chillingly soft.
"She looked at me and said three words: Clean your house.
I stepped up to him, looked into his terrified eyes, and ran this blade straight across his neck.
I watched the blood spray into the current and stood there as his lifeless body was carried away, washing down the rushing river.
The system protected him, Ciara... so we dismantled the system. "
I gestured softly to the blade resting on the granite.
"She placed it in my hand and told me that the world was full of parasites, Ciara. Scum who exist only to consume, violate, and destroy the peace of gentle souls. She taught me that a real man doesn't wait for a broken, bureaucratic justice system to protect him—he cleans his own house."
Ciara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. She stood frozen, staring at the gleaming knife on the counter, then slowly raising her eyes to meet mine.
"How many persons have you killed with that thing, Joshua?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper as she pointed a finger at the blade.
"Nine in total," I revealed without a shred of hesitation. "All scum of the earth, I assure you. Abusers, predators, violent parasites who slipped through the cracks of the law and inflicted unimaginable suffering on the innocent. And now... you killing Morgan makes it ten in total for this blade."
I paused, stepping out from behind the kitchen island, standing tall, imposing, and completely unmasked before her. The gentle therapist's facade was completely gone. She was looking at the calculated predator beneath.
"Are you scared of me now, Ciara Long?" I asked softly, searching her eyes to know where I stood in her heart. "Am I no longer a doctor to you... but a monster?"
Ciara stared at me for five agonizing, breathless seconds. Her chest rose and fell in deep, deliberate rhythms.
Then, to my absolute, overwhelming astonishment, a brilliant, warm, wicked smile spread across her gorgeous chocolate face.
She stepped forward, closing the space between us, and wrapped her arms tightly around my waist, burying her face directly into my bare chest.
I stood frozen for a beat, completely stunned, before my massive arms wrapped around her back, pulling her tight against me.
"To be honest... I don't see you as less than," she murmured against my skin, looking up into my eyes with pure, unfiltered devotion. "I still love you, Joshua. You told me you only kill scum... and I take your word for it."
"Ciara..." I whispered, genuinely speechless. "Most women would be running out into the woods right now, screaming for the police, calling me a psychotic murderer. Why are you different?"
She reached up, cupping my face in her soft, warm hands, her dark eyes shining like diamonds in the dim kitchen light.
"Because I don't see a monster, Joshua Willis," she revealed, her voice ringing with absolute, unshakable conviction. "I see a capable, protective, loving man who will always fight for the truth... and for what he loves."
She pulled my head down, capturing my lips in a deep, breathtaking kiss that tasted of absolute acceptance, dark devotion, and eternal loyalty.
I kissed her back with everything inside me, my heart soaring.
She wasn't just my lover. She was my absolute soulmate—a woman built of the exact same indestructible, dangerous steel as me.
"We still have to get rid of that body," I said, breaking the kiss and glancing toward the blood-soaked balcony.
"Shouldn't we call Detective Jones?" Ciara asked, resting her cheek against my chest, her fingers playing with the short hair on the back of my neck.