Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
HIM
E ven before we pulled into William’s driveway, the lights blinded me.
The Holloway residence is expansive, with long winding pathways leading up to the main house. Colored lights hang from the roof and windows, and a snowman with a blue scarf and top hat stands in the yard, accompanied by an illuminated life-sized sleigh and reindeer. It’s all so … excessive.
And headache-inducing.
I exit the rental car and circle around to open the passenger side. As I take Gwen’s hand and help her out, I steal a glance at her breasts in her low-cut black dress. She stands, swatting me in retribution. I chuckle, desperate to ignore the impulse to stab someone if they so much as look at her funny.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says, adjusting her burgundy shawl.
Damn, she looks fantastic in red and black , I think, guiding her further into the property. Stereotypical Christmas music fills the air, accompanied by laughter as we approach the entrance of my boss’s house, where I’ll have to put up with my coworkers after hours. A large evergreen wreath adorned with glittering pinecones hangs on the door. I ring the bell and wait.
“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, glimpsing me through her mascara-plumped lashes.
I smile weakly. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Just a headache.”
“I have some aspirin in my purse,” she offers before the door bursts open.
“Ho, ho, ho!” David—dressed as fucking Santa Claus—greets with a jolly laugh. He wears a scarlet suit and fake mustache, the works. “Come in, come in!”
“For fucksakes,” I mutter as he ushers us in, more annoyed than impressed by his costume.
After a maid collects our coats, we follow David’s lead further inside. The music gets louder as we cross the grand foyer and reach the living room, where an enormous tree is covered in sparkling baubles and dusted with fake snow. Presents peek out from underneath, and twinkling green and red tinsel is draped on the edges of every surface. Above, hanging from the high ceiling, a chandelier bathes the room in a warm glow.
Like I said, fucking excessive.
I shouldn’t have expected anything less from William. He’s loaded, and not because of the newspaper. It’s all old money. He’s the type of guy to show off, and this office Christmas party is no exception. With wealth like his, moderation is unacceptable.
“Hey, guys! Blake and his girl, Mia, are here!” David says, unfortunately reminding me of his presence.
I fight the urge to rub my temples as my coworkers welcome us with varying levels of enthusiasm. They’re scattered about, holding drinks and plates of food, and they return to chat about things I couldn’t care less about right now.
“You look fucking ridiculous,” I remark, shaking my head at David.
He slings his arm around my shoulder. “Aw, lighten up,” he says, the alcohol on his breath unmistakable. “Pour yourself a cocktail at the bar and enjoy the evening, Sullivan.”
I shrug him off and note the bar erected in the room’s corner, near a grand piano. Silently, I thank whatever deity that some wasted asshole isn’t attempting Moonlight Sonata .
“Let’s get something to eat,” Gwen suggests, gesturing toward the tables.
Relieved to get away from David, I go with her. Set up on silver platters are various appetizers, a cheeseboard, and an impressive array of desserts. I grab a plate from the stacks and indulge in the admittedly delicious-looking food.
After loading up my plate with roasted potatoes, a slice of glazed ham, and a bar of apple crumble, we find a corner near the windows to settle in. While enjoying our meal, we take in our surroundings and I notice that Gwen, though not fully honed, has a keen eye for detail that reminds me of my own.
David does his rounds around the room, slurring some nonsense I’m sure nobody cares to listen to, as most of the partygoers are already—at minimum—tipsy.
Gwen rolls her eyes at him as he passes by for the third time. “Does he always act like this?” she asks, before nibbling on her vegetable skewer.
“He does,” I respond between bites. “Typically, less alcohol is involved.”
Right on cue, David trips over his own feet and falls face-first. Some people laugh, but he doesn’t seem ashamed. Ugh . The thought of publicly embarrassing myself like that is mortifying. I dive into my potatoes, unable to feel the Christmas cheer, my mind consumed with thoughts of murdering Detective Bryant.
It would be so easy.
He’s returned home and now lives alone. His divorce has left him isolated, and his kids have distanced themselves from him. No one will find his rotting corpse over the holiday weekend. As William comes toward us, I quickly switch to a pleasant veneer, though Gwen notices the change in my facial expression and fixes a smile of her own as our host approaches us.
“How are you doing this fine evening, Blake?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer, delicately wiping my mouth with a cloth napkin. “Lovely place you have here.”
He smiles warmly at Gwen and extends his hand. “Mia, isn’t it? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. ”
She takes his hand. “The pleasure is mine,” she says, politely returning the smile.
I try to keep a neutral expression on my face. But inside, I want to scream. When I said I’m the jealous type, I meant it. I struggle against every desire to tear William’s arm off as his hold on Gwen lingers a beat too long. I shove another forkful of potatoes into my mouth to prevent myself from plunging the utensil into his carotid artery.
Thankfully, Gwen senses my anger and quickly pulls away from him with a polite but firm tug of her hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” she says sweetly.
He smiles. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” he comments, chuckling at his joke as he departs for the bar.
Once he’s gone, I exhale in relief. Gwen entwines her fingers with mine and looks me in the eye.
“Are you okay?” she questions softly so that no one around us will overhear.
A part of me is almost ashamed by my near loss of self-control, but I’m thankful for her quick thinking. “I’m fine. I just didn’t like how handsy he got with you.”
She grins and places a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry. I can handle the old creep.”
We share a laugh before resuming our respective meals. But as I finish the last of my crumble, I can’t focus on anything. Even after taking two aspirins, all I can think about is ending Bryant’s life. I can’t take this banal party anymore .
“Could you excuse me for a moment?” I say, squeezing Gwen’s hand before letting go. “I need to use the bathroom.”
She nods as I dart off into a hall with gleaming marble floors. I consider asking one of the other guests for directions but decide against it. I’m bound to discover one of the probably six bathrooms in this damned fortress.
After passing by an ornate curved staircase, I finally stumble upon what I’m searching for. I step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, grateful for the privacy. Placing my palms on the sink, I take a few deep breaths as I attempt to clear my head. But as soon as I close my eyes, all I envision is a bloody crime scene, with Bryant as the centerpiece.
I quietly exit through the window, fully aware that Gwen will be furious with me for this, and swiftly make my way to the car.
It’s time for that detective to pay for prying into our business.
It doesn’t take long to reach Bryant’s house.
I’ve hidden the car two blocks away, being vigilant to avoid any cameras. So I couldn’t idle nearby, even though it’s freezing out.
From the tree house across the street, I watch Bryant through binoculars. He’s pacing and muttering in the living room, as if speaking to someone in his head. His brow is creased, and that perpetual scowl of frustration appears to be etched into his face. There will be more than just frustration splashed there by the time I’m done with him .
Carefully, I inch my way down from the tree house. I don’t make a noise despite the deserted, dark status of the neighborhood. Maneuvering past the snow-covered bushes, I silently cross the street and slip into Bryant’s backyard undetected. I peer through a window, seeing him pad into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge.
I scowl at him through the mask as he downs the can in one fell swoop. Some of it dribbles down his chin, and he wipes the golden liquid away with the back of his hand. My resentment for him grows by the second. But I keep my composure and continue observing him as he meanders back to the living room.
Stealthily, I track his every move through the windows. I begin to devise a plan, my mind racing as I figure out how to best approach ending this fucker—because the longer he walks around the house, the more furious I become. It’s only a matter of time before the leash on my temper snaps. I pause, my gaze sweeping across the house to survey it—and inspiration strikes me.
I go over to his storage shed and enter, spotting a ladder tucked in the corner. I snatch it before quietly kicking the door shut behind me and set the ladder up near the back porch. Though my gloves provide some purchase, I’m not stupid enough to risk climbing the slippery gutters. I make my way up and soon find myself at the ledge of Bryant’s second-floor bedroom window. After prying it open, I slip inside.
The messy room is filled with scattered clothing, an unmade bed, and an overflowing trash bin. I can’t help but feel disgusted at Bryant’s lack of propriety. Vaguely, I also wonder where his murder board is. I’ll have to make sure I burn it, along with any other evidence I can find after I’m done dealing with him.
The sound of a football game blares from downstairs, drowning out everything around it. I contemplate whether I should wait up here until he heads to bed or hedge my bets on Bryant falling asleep in his recliner instead. Normally, I’m patient—but tonight, my blood sings with restlessness. So I choose to bide my time, but only for so long.
Unable to tolerate another air freshener ad, I unsheathe my knife and descend the stairs with light steps. Peeking around the corner, I can just make out the outline of Bryant’s slouched frame in his recliner, his mouth open and drooling, his fingers half-clutching a mostly empty can of beer. As I move closer, he stirs lightly but doesn’t wake up. This is going better than expected.
But it’s too good to be true. His eyes flutter open, though he doesn’t initially comprehend what’s going on. I cut him off mid-sentence as he stumbles over his words.
“Goodnight, detective,” I say, smiling as I plunge the knife into his chest, angling it up below his ribs.
He gasps, thrashing in shock, his eyes wide with confusion. I drive it up higher, deep as I can, before yanking it back. Blood explodes from the wound, painting his shirt and the recliner crimson. He wheezes, unable to breathe. He tries to reach for me, in one last-ditch effort to stop me. But it’s too late.
He falls to the floor, motionless, his eyes glazing over as he chokes on his own blood.
Quick and dirty. Not usually my style. Bryant deserves worse—specifically a slow and agonizing torture session—but time is of the essence. I wipe the blade on the recliner before sheathing it and getting to work hunting down and destroying any evidence I can get my hands on.
After torching the board and a bunch of documents in Bryant’s backyard fire pit, I retreat to my car and drive back to Grand Pointe Apartments. A reasonable boyfriend would swing by to pick up his girl and let her in on his plans. But I’m running on a tight schedule.
I need to frame someone for the killings. And I’m sure that Gwen will understand—even if we have to skip town sooner than I originally expected.
I have the perfect scapegoat in mind.
My neighbor across the hall, Alex Harris, is a notorious tweaker who blasts obnoxious music at all hours. Law enforcement may link his downfall to the dealers he associates with, but I will ensure there will be no mistake about his involvement in the murders. The FBI will have no choice but to pin the blame on him.
Using the night as cover, I park in the lot and enter the building with my hood pulled tight. I’m not wearing my mask; obviously, I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Not at this critical step of my plan. Casually, I ascend the stairs and go into my apartment with my duffle bag slung over my shoulder. Bryant’s body is still in the car, and I refuse to leave my tools with his decaying remains.
I’ll deal with the disposal soon enough.
I freshen up before putting on my mask and heading over to Alex’s place. No light seeps from the crack beneath his door, so he’s probably sleeping off a high. The familiar thumping bass resonates from inside, the same sound that has often kept me up at night. I pick the lock and enter, closing the door behind me to ensure there’s no escape for him.
The lights are off, except for the bathroom where I can hear the water running.
Weapon in hand, I slink to the bathroom. The shower curtain is drawn, and steam fills the room. Alex hums off-key to the beat as he scrubs his scalp. Steadying my grip, I yank back the curtain. His bloodshot eyes snap open in surprise, a look of confusion quickly morphing into fear when he glimpses my knife.
“W-who are you?!” he stammers, backing away slowly.
I give him a sinister smirk, even though he can’t see it. “Just think of me as the angel of death,” I say, raising my knife.
He pales as he realizes what’s about to happen. He scrambles away, screaming in terror, his back hitting the wall tiles. “Please! No! Don’t do this!” he pleads.
I shake my head and take a step closer, my grip tightening on the handle of the knife. “You should have thought about that before you started dealing drugs in our neighborhood, Alex,” I say coldly.
He blanches, his eyes widening. “Who sent you?”
Chuckling darkly, I take a step forward, the blade glinting in the harsh bathroom light. “No one needs to send me,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Justice is here.”
“Fuck you, freak!”
He struggles to break free, but my grip is ironclad. I bring the blade up to his throat and he quakes in fear, the reality of what’s happening finally sinking in. With a quick flick of my wrist, I slit his throat. He gasps for breath, his fingers coming up to clutch at his neck. He falls to the shower floor with a thud, his blood forming a river of crimson as it swirls down the drain.
I remove the mask, sucking in a gulp of fresh air. “That’s for interrupting my sleep with your shitty …” I trail off, seeing a figure in the foggy mirror, stopping me in my tracks.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
My gaze flicks up to meet a pair of frosty green eyes staring back at me unflinchingly in the doorway. Gwen stands there, her arms folded over her chest.
And she’s none too pleased with what I’ve done.