Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
Rhys
Mr. Peter Whittle.
The man looking back at me from his smug Facebook profile.
The man who was leaning on the car bonnet.
“You are making it too easy for me, my friend.”
The brothers owed money to Whittle, who sent his nameless thug to shake Noah down.
I thought a man like Whittle would be far away from here, keeping his hands clean.
I thought he was out of my reach.
Far away where I couldn't get him.
But if he's here, and I can find him, then he's mine.
A man who likes to watch.
Now, where would he be hiding?
I leave via the back door, stalking around my own house. It feels different. Usually, I don't want to crush the flowers because it leaves evidence; here it's because I care.
Noah has shown me how to care about something other than myself. Someone other than me.
I slip around the side of my practice and creep forward.
There he is.
The arrogant man who thinks he's untouchable.
He thinks he can look in through my window at what is mine.
He thinks he can watch my innocent boy feeding those tiny puppies.
He's about to learn what a monumental mistake that is.
My socks are silent on the gravel drive as I creep closer to him.
Raising the syringe, I pull the cap off with my teeth. It slides into Whittle's neck before he even knows I'm here.
His body jerks once, sharp and instinctive, but I’m already stepping back, watching.
The drug works fast. It always does.
His knees buckle, hands grasping for something that isn’t there as his body forgets how to stay upright. I catch him before he hits the ground.
Killing again so soon after a double murder is not part of my routine.
A kill usually cleanses my mind for up to a year before the urges creep back in.
But not this time. It wasn't because a double murder woke something in me.
It's because I didn't experience the soul-soothing peace that usually follows a kill. Instead, I found the chaotic whirlwind of Noah’s life.
He won't understand. He won't accept this part of my being, but I can't stop. Even with the brother's disappearance still being investigated, I can't stop.
I'm not even sure another kill will make anything better, but I need this chaos to end, and there is only one way to do that.
I know everything about my victim; no planning or research required.
I've learned everything I need to know about the brothers over the few months leading up to my decision to kill the brothers and let him live. Whittle is just one more piece of the same puzzle. Now, this whole mess ends.
That's when my mind decides to questions what Noah would think of this. What would he think if he were awake to watch this?
Would he still have unlocked the door at the kennels if he knew what the future held?
I push the doubt down and grab the body under his arms, dragging him across the garden back towards my house.
The hard part is done. Or it should be.
The body is secure. The biggest risk is over.
Now I just have to get him inside.
But the fun part is still to come.
It's different coming home with an unconscious body to an occupied house, both good and bad. It's bad because I have to creep around with an unconscious man to get back in the house. It's good because…
Well, because it's Noah.
There is literally no other reason.
Halfway across the kitchen floor, the overhead light suddenly flickers to life, bathing me and Mr. Not Quite Dead in harsh yellow light.
Noah is standing in the doorway, in pajamas and the dressing gown I'd left on the back of the door for him. He says nothing, just stares. His mask hides his feelings. He's not scared or angry. He's just there. A little surprise, but otherwise blank.
He says nothing, just stares.
And for the first time since I dragged a body into this house I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Whittle is getting heavy, so I keep dragging him, moving closer to Noah. He doesn't move a muscle, just watches me. No offering to help, no running away screaming.
Standing there feels worse somehow. As I get closer, he backs up enough to let me through, watching me struggle with the basement door.
My hopes of his accepting this side of my life are hanging by a thread, held together only because he hasn't run away yet.
Stairs are easy. Bodies at the top become bodies at the bottom with little effort on my part. Gravity does the hard work for me. Unconscious bodies reach the bottom surprisingly unharmed.
I follow the body, and to my surprise, Noah follows me down. The first part is a typical cellar, containing junk and a small wine rack. Behind the false wall is where the magic happens. My secret supply room and office, and my very secret operating room.
“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” I question.
“I need to see this,” Noah nods slowly.
“Do you want to wait in the office again?”
“No. I want to see all of this.”
“You want to be a part of this?”
He nods again. “I should have helped you up there, but…” His voice cracks with embarrassment. He finishes the sentence by offering a little peek into the dressing gown's pockets. Lumpy and Bumpy are sleeping inside, wrapped up and content, but in a very squishable location.
“They've eaten, so I'm giving the others a chance to…”
It all makes sense now. He didn't hesitate because he was unsure about my late-night hobby, just his canine obsession.
Relief settles in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
Not rejection. Not fear. Just… distraction.
That is something I can live with.