Chapter 12
Eddie
After James’s turn with Vincent, we break and then reconvene the next evening. Sera gives him stale bread, covered in James’s cum, and water, and it’s certainly not out of the goodness of her heart.
This is about torture, about Vincent’s final deconstruction, about catharsis, about healing Sera the only way she knows how.
Vincent is on the floor, curled around his ruined feet and knees, his breath coming in wet, hitching gasps. He's crying. Again. Tears mean the walls are coming down, which is fine since it’s my turn with him.
I crouch beside him, close enough that he can see my face, the calm in it, the patience. I've waited for this, not just the moment, but the position of power over my former boss and the man who tried to kill me twice.
"You didn’t do a very good job at killing me," I say, my voice level. "Just like you didn’t do a good job of being a man."
He looks up. His eyes are wild, darting, searching for an exit that doesn't exist. They land on my chest and shoulder, where the bullets hit.
He whimpers, a small, animal sound.
"I came back for this," I continue, glancing at Sera behind me on her throne. "In part, anyway. That's the thing about trying to kill a man who's in love with a woman who made a deal with the devil. You have to be sure he’s really dead."
I reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of gloves I use at crime scenes. I put them on slowly, deliberately, letting the latex snap against my wrists. The sound makes him flinch.
It’s not that I don’t want to touch him, but…
Fine, it’s because I don’t actually want to touch him. He reeks of piss and shit, and I don’t want his particular rot to taint me.
"Now," I say, "we're going to have a conversation. You're going to tell me everything. Every woman you raped. Every crime you’ve committed. Every lie you told to cover your tracks. And if you don't…" I gesture at his body. "Well, we’re just getting warmed up."
He shakes his head, a frantic, jerking motion. "I don't— I can't—"
"You can." I lean closer. "You will. I'm not asking, Vincent. I'm telling. You tried to kill me. You raped the woman I love. You think a few broken bones are going to make me stop?"
I let the silence stretch, let him feel the weight of it.
"Let's start with Evelyn," I say. "Tell me how you killed your wife. Be specific."
I wait.
His silence fills the spaces between his ragged breaths.
"Evelyn," I repeat, reaching for his sorry excuse for a foot to give it a twist. "Tell me right now."
He hisses through his clenched teeth and tries to shrink away. When the shadows continue to hold, he shakes his head, a small, defeated motion. "She was going to leave me."
"Divorce. Yes, I know. Why did that scare you?"
"Because she knew things." His voice is a rasp, barely audible. "Things that would ruin me."
"What things?"
He shakes his head. "You know what things. You've been digging."
"I have. But I want to hear it from you. Every woman. Every crime. Start with Evelyn."
He swallows, his throat clicking. "She gave me no choice."
"She filed for divorce. That's a choice. Murder is punishment."
"She knew about Judge Callahan and my dealings with him. She knew I’d had affairs and had heard other accusations from other women. She had notes. Dates. Names." His voice cracks. "I couldn't let her talk once she left me."
"So you staged her murder and made it look like Red Hands."
He nods.
"You failed."
His eyes flash when he looks up at me. "It looked fucking real to me."
"But not real to me. The handprint was too big. The nail polish was too thin. The cuts were all wrong. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? After I spent months staring at crime scene pictures of the real thing?"
His jaw is tight, his teeth grinding. “If you know so much about Red Hands, then why didn’t you catch him a long fucking time ago?”
I hike up an eyebrow. “So this is all my fault, then?”
At that, he goes quiet.
"The medical examiner said the cuts on her body didn’t kill her, so what did? How did you kill her?" I already know, of course, but I need to hear him say it.
A long pause. Then, quietly: "I strangled her in our bedroom. She was packing a suitcase. I came up behind her with a belt."
"And then?"
"I drove her to that gas station and…arranged her. I painted her nails. Made the cuts. Set the scene." His voice drops to a whisper. "It took fucking hours. I kept thinking someone would find me, but no one did."
I let the silence stretch, let him marinate in the confession.
Then I shift, leaning closer. "Now tell me about the rapes."
When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. "I do it because I can."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer there is." He narrows his eyes, and there's something naked in them now. Something ugly. "I do it because I want to. Because it's power. Because when I take a woman who doesn't want to be taken, I feel like a god."
My whole body recoils at his words. "A god."
"Yes. For that moment, I control everything. Her body. Her fear. Her silence. I decide what happens to her."
"And Sera?"
"She fought," he spits.
My blood needles through my veins at the look he throws Sera, and I immediately block his line of sight with my body. “Eyes on me.”
"She fought like she had nothing to lose. Like she'd rather die than give me what I wanted… what I deserved. And that…" He stops, breathing hard. "That made me want her more."
"So you raped her. Are you having second thoughts about that now?"
His jaw tightens.
I stand, looking down at him, at his lack of an answer even now, broken and bound in Sera’s basement.
This motherfucker.
"Here's the truth, Vincent. You're not a god.
You're not even a monster. You're just a man who couldn't stand the thought of being so small, so you made everyone around you smaller.
But it didn't work because here you are, answering for everything you've done, and we’re only getting started.
Are you really too stupid to realize that? "
Again, he doesn’t answer. He just glares at me with the vindictiveness of someone used to blaming others for all their troubles.
I turn to Sera. Her eyes meet mine.
"He doesn’t know how to bow," I say.
She smiles. “So we’ll teach him.”