Chapter 28
Apparently, not even a cup of Dad’s famous cocoa can bring me out of my funk. And only now, as I stare at my father seated about a foot away on the edge of my bed, do I realize I haven’t done a good job of hiding it.
“Is it hot enough? I know it’s not good to you unless there’s danger of burning your lips off, so I brought it up as quickly as I could.”
The joke only draws a small smile out of me. It’s the best I can do.
“It’s perfect. I can feel the blisters forming as we speak,” I tease.
Dad glances around my room, and I can’t remember the last time he’s been up here to visit. Which makes it even more suspicious that he’s decided to visit my space at nine in the evening. Usually, our common meeting spot is the kitchen, but I haven’t been down in days. Opting, instead, to either grab fast food or have something delivered.
After what happened at the station, I haven’t been much in the mood for socializing.
“Ready to talk about it?”
I swallow a sip of cocoa. My focus shifts from the old sitcom muted on my television to Dad’s gaze. “About?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual. “Whatever’s bothering you.”
The taunting I endured from my coworkers echoes in my head, and all I want to do is forget about it. Talking won’t change anything.
“I’m fine,” I lie, tucking the comforter under my arms as I rest my back against the headboard.
Dad takes another look around my room, taking in the mess I’ve accumulated—empty food containers, clothes piled on the floor, a half-finished bottle of soda on the nightstand. Then, he arches a brow, calling my bluff.
“Want to try again?”
“Dad, I—”
“I heard you arguing with that guy you’ve been seeing the other night.”
His admission silences me. Yes, I knew he was spying from the window that night, but I didn’t expect him to actually bring it up.
“You’ve been seeing him for a while, right? You haven’t introduced me, but I see his car here from time to time.”
On top of everything else I’m feeling, embarrassment is now added to that list.
“A little over six months,” I admit. “But it was never that serious.”
He arches one brow again. “Six months seems like plenty of time to get serious about someone.”
“It could be. But it wasn’t for us.”
There’s so much more I could explain, but that’s as far as I go. He waits quietly for a bit, maybe hoping I’ll elaborate, but I don’t.
“So, you two ended things. That’s why you’ve been… a little off lately.”
I maintain my silence, searching for words to explain, and not explain.
“Yes, it’s over, and I’m processing, but I’m fine without him. I’m better without him.”
My hands tighten around my mug when a hint of rage seeps in, reminding me of the ill-advised message I sent to Damien days ago. I can feel my father studying me, making me wonder if he’s buying any of this. Then, when he places a hand on my knee, forcing my eyes to meet his, I’m positive he hasn’t.
“I’d like for you to talk to a colleague of mine.”
I’m already rolling my eyes before he even finishes. “Dad, no.”
“Sweetheart, there’s no shame in getting help.”
“Don’t you think I know this? The point is that I don’t need help. People separate from other people all the time, and it isn’t the end of the world. I don’t need couch time to work out my feelings about Martinez. Like I said, we weren’t even serious.”
He’s still staring when I finish, and I’m now one hundred percent certain the cocoa he brought up was merely a Trojan horse, a means of working his way into my space to suggest more doctors, more meds.
“What’s this really about?” My question hangs in the air a moment, and his hesitation to answer means I’m right. There’s more to him dropping in on me tonight.
He sighs, then glances toward the moving images on the television instead of meeting my gaze.
“I checked in with the pharmacy last week to see when you last refilled your meds. And, based on what they told me, it’s been months, Layla. Which, even if you were taking them, that would at least mean you weren’t taking them as often as you should. So, when you were out this past weekend, celebrating with Dove, I… counted them.”
My brow tenses, and I set the mug aside. “You came in here and went through my things? What gives you the fucking right? I’m not a child. I don’t need you checking up on me.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“I’m only trying to help you, Layla.”
I take a deep breath to settle myself. “Like you tried helping me before, right?”
Confused, he shoots a sharp look my way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I hold his gaze, wanting him to hear every word. “Experimenting on me is not the same as helping me.”
His eyes widen, and as tears burn in mine, I wish I could take back what I’ve said. Not because I don’t think he needs to hear it, but because I could’ve been kinder.
He finally looks away, and I hate that the sadness he’s now shouldering was placed there by my fuck up.
“Layla, I’ve only ever done what I’ve felt is best for you. Are there things I wish I could take back? You bet your ass there are, but I’ve only ever tried to protect you.”
A tear slips down my cheek. “Dad… there are years of my life I can’t recall. Memories of you, friends… Mom. All of it. Gone.”
Guilt sweeps over him as I stare.
“I know, I… I thought I was doing what was right. I saw things in you that…”
He trails off there, but I know what he’s thinking.
“You saw things in me that reminded you of Mom.”
His silence confirms that I’m right. Not that I needed further confirmation. The meds, being forced to attend Catholic school, endless trips to the psychologist over the years—those things were all the proof I needed.
“I think you should go.”
He lingers a moment after I speak, maybe hoping I’ll change my mind and want to talk shit out, but I don’t. I’m done. With everything.
“If you need something or someone… you know where to find me.”
I nearly call out to him as he’s leaving. Mostly because I don’t believe I’ve said all that needs to be said, but I let him go, realizing I can’t be here right now. It’s starting to feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Swiping a pair of sweats from the floor, I pull them on and grab my keys. I’ve got no place in mind to go, but I can’t stay here a second longer.
As I back out of the garage, I catch a glimpse of my father’s silhouette standing at the back door, watching. He thinks he knows me, thinks he knows what I need, but after tonight, I don’t think he’s ever felt more like a stranger.
Damien
Diego sings Motown hits while he showers.
Never would’ve guessed that.
It’s been a solid fifteen minutes since he turned on the water, and my patience wears thin.
Listening.
Waiting.
Finally, the faucet twists, and I smile when the next sound I hear is the shower curtain rings racing across the rod as he steps out.
I’ve checked and double checked that everything’s in place and all set to go. There’s nothing left to do but wait for him to step out of the bathroom, then… showtime.
The bathroom door creeps open and light seeps into the bedroom. I stare at him, this piece of filth the grave has been calling out to like a starved lover. Tonight, Death will be one step closer to swallowing whole the one it craves.
Diego Martinez.
My head tilts as he walks out and doesn’t see me standing in the corner, no clue he’s in the presence of the last visitor he’ll ever have. He tightens a towel around his waist, then pauses in front of a large stereo while using the towel around his shoulders to dry his hair. I press a button on the remote clutched in my gloved hand, smiling as he nearly jumps out of his skin, frantic as a song of my choosing blasts at full volume from the speakers. He feels around on the dresser for the remote as I start toward him, cracking my neck, reveling in the surge of adrenaline that always blasts through me right before the fun begins.
I toss the remote to his bed, then unsheathe two of my blades. At the last second, he turns and sees me approaching, and I note the moment recognition fills his eyes.
That’s right, motherfucker. You know exactly who the fuck I am.
Shock fills his expression as I raise blades in each hand, and then slam both down into his shoulders, splitting skin and muscle, wedging into bone. The force causes his fucking knees to buckle, and he hits the ground.
He cries out in pain, but no one hears him. He attempts to swing a punch, but with the butts of both blades still jutting straight up from his shoulders, his arms are useless. The more he moves, he’s only causing himself more pain.
“What the fuck? Why are you doing this?” he spits, breathing hard and fast as he experiences what must be the worst pain of his life.
It’s warranted. He’s dying tonight.
My steps advance as he scoots backward, trying to put a safe distance between us. He glances toward his nightstand where he expects to find his gun, but my laugh draws his eyes back to mine.
“Do you really think I didn’t take care of that? Trust me, I thought of everything.”
He pants as blood pulses from the wounds, mixing with the water still lingering on his chest and torso.
“What the fuck is this?” He’s breathless as his back meets the wall, and I’m guessing adrenaline is the only thing that’s kept him from passing out from the pain.
My eyes flit toward the ceiling a moment. “This… is the result of months of you fucking up.”
He shakes his head, trying and failing again to move his arms. He seems to realize they’re useless, which is why his eyes dart toward the door. I guess if fighting back isn’t an option, maybe he thinks he’ll run.
My head tilts, and I wonder if he’s really that stupid. “How far do you honestly think you’d get?”
He seems startled when I guess that running is his new plan, then this pitiful look of defeat sets in, and I don’t hate it. It’s nice getting to witness the moment he’s realized just how deep the shit is he’s gotten himself into.
I take another step, and he whimpers with pain when he tries lifting his arm again.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks through gritted teeth as spit dribbles down his chin.
“Oh, come on. You haven’t figured that part out yet? You really are a fucking moron, aren’t you?” My shoulders lift and fall when I let out a breath. “Here’s a hint. When your family buries you, there will be a lovely piece of art carved into your chest, hidden just beneath your suit.”
“Fuck.”
His head falls to the side and the rush of fear in his eyes is damn-near orgasmic.
I smile. “I take it you’ve put the pieces together.”
“She knew the whole time,” he says, being vague, but I catch his meaning anyway.
“Yes and no. When you all first started following my work, she was just as clueless as everyone else. But now, through a series of intriguing events, yes, she knows.”
His nostrils flare with anger, and his jaw tenses. There’s this look on his face, and I think this asshole actually feels sorry for himself. Like he’s been betrayed.
“You don’t have to do this. Things haven’t gone too far yet. The wounds will heal, and you have my word that everything you’ve confessed just now stays between us. If you just let me go, I’ll—”
His words cut off when I rush toward him, sick and fucking tired of hearing him speak. Gripping the handle of one of the knives wedged in his flesh, I use it to hold him still as my fist connects with his mouth.
He shrieks, likely not knowing which source of pain is worse at the moment, but he has no idea how much worse it’s about to get.
None.
“She’s not worth it,” he pants as his eyelids droop. “Whatever that bitch said, whatever she told you to make this seem like the way to handle things, she’s wrong. I swear to you, man, she’s on meds, completely unstable.”
That last line is particularly entertaining to me, considering I’m the insane man who’s about to end his life.
“Look at me,” I whisper, and then lean closer to his ear as the smell of fresh blood scents the air. “Unstable is my favorite fucking color.”
His scream rings out when a third blade he didn’t see pushes into his torso. I hold his gaze as I rip it higher, from his navel to his sternum, watching tears spill over the rims of his eyes.
“Let it out. I don’t blame you. It’s gotta be tough knowing this is the end. Especially when you imagine that little girl of yours growing up without a father.” I shrug. “Well, until her mother replaces you with a newer, better version that is. I mean, come on, it’s not like you set the bar all that high.”
He winces when I laugh, finding another source of amusement when blood spurts from his mouth.
“Not much longer now,” I promise, which draws more tears out of him. “If it’s any comfort to you, I’m sure the people in your life will mourn you, seeing as how no one knows what a piece of shit you really are.”
I look him over, the sudden paleness of his skin. If I wait much longer, he won’t be conscious to witness the finale.
“Come on. We’re almost finished,” I assure him, hoisting his body from the floor to his bed. He’s surprisingly limp, which means he may be further gone than I realized.
“What are you doing,” he chokes out, his gaze following me as I retrieve rope from the bag I placed near the closet.
“You’ll see.”
“God, please, no,” he begs, but his cries go ignored as I tie both his feet to the posts on his footboard. Then, he screams twice as loud as I pull the blades from his shoulders, allowing me to tie his hands to the headboard.
He shudders when I rip the towel from around his waist, exposing his small, flaccid dick.
“Please!”
“You know, I picked up on something about you when I tailed you the other day. Then again when I overheard you tell Layla that all you ever really wanted from her was sex.”
“No, it wasn’t true. I had feelings for her.”
The lie brings a smile to my lips. “You sure? Because two seconds ago you couldn’t find enough words to tell me how unstable she is.”
He’s sobbing now, which pushes copious amounts of blood from the wound in his torso.
“But back to my theory,” I sigh. “I think you’re obsessed with your own equipment.”
He flinches and whimpers when I tap my blade against his dick.
“So, it seems fitting that I send you out in true Diego Martinez fashion. I mean, what man wouldn’t want to die with his cock in someone’s mouth? Although, I’m not sure how many of us will get to say it was our own mouth we were balls deep in, but I suppose that’s what makes this so special.”
“Please! Please, no! Noooo!”
I ignore him, frowning when I have to touch his dick, but it’s all worth it, getting to hear his agony-infused shrieks as my knife cuts through, severing his prized possession from his body. Dripping blood onto his torso, I hold his cock high for him to see, wanting him to know this is real, wanting him to carry every horrifying moment of this ordeal with him into death.
Blood pours out of him, and he’s starting to lose consciousness. So, I act fast, forcing his mouth open, wide enough to shove his cock inside it, and then I hold my hand over his lips, mesmerized as he gags and struggles for air. There’s duct tape in my bag that was meant for this moment, meant to keep him from spitting it out, but this feels right.
It feels… more appropriate.
His eyes are fixed on mine, and this is the moment I live for.
The rush that feeds my blackened soul as a small part of a target’s life source becomes mine.
And just like that, the light drains from his eyes, and… he’s gone.
Done.
Finished.
Slowly, I pull my hand away from his mouth, and he’s perfectly still. My gloves are slick with blood, but I’m steady enough with my knife to control it while adding the finishing touch—my signature forever carved into his chest.
From this day forward, Detective Diego Martinez will live on… as nothing but a fucking memory.