Chapter 35
Jim Fuller flexed his fingers, the ache in his knuckles reminding him of the bail paperwork he’d had to sign that morning.
He was free—for now. But broke. His so-called ‘perfect life’—state money rolling in, no questions asked, a fridge stocked with cheap beer, and a woman to nag about nothing important—had been ripped away from him when they’d taken the foster kids away!
And it was all her fault.
That uppity girl. Mia. Marching into his world, tearing it down. Acting like she was a savior to kids who didn’t know how good they had it.
Jim gritted his teeth and drove slowly past her house.
Big place. Too big. Rich-people fancy with turrets and too many damn windows.
He parked a few streets over, waiting. Watching.
When their cars finally pulled away, everyone off to their jobs or appointments or whatever the hell those damn people did during the day, Jim crept back through the landscaping, determined to do…
something. He hadn’t figured out what, exactly.
The side window gave him easy access. A rock through the glass, a quick shove, and he was inside, unknowingly walking right past the blinking red light of a security camera that was currently tracking his movements.
He padded up the stairs, checking doors one by one. Too clean. Too tidy. But then he found it—her room. A pile of leggings in the corner, girly makeup on the dresser, a hint of something floral in the air.
“Perfect,” he muttered.
He pulled the knife from his boot, his grin stretching as the blade gleamed in the light.
One slash down the pillows made the feathers explode like snow.
Another through the mattress, the sound of tearing fabric and foam thrilling him.
He went wild on the blankets and the sheets, carving them into ribbons.
The thought of her walking in to see this mess sent a wave of satisfaction through him. The bitch had ruined his life. So now he’d ruined something she loved. Finally, a win.
Jim turned to the closet, his fingers twitching with anticipation. He could shred every pretty little thing she owned. But just as he reached for the first blouse, a sound startled him.
Sirens.
His stomach dropped. How the hell had they known he was here?
Jim glanced around, his eyes furtive and panicked. He was out on bail! This was…bad! “No, no, no—”
He bolted, pounding down the stairs, the knife still clutched in his hand. He dove for the window he’d broken earlier, getting one leg out as the red-and-blue lights danced in the air.
“Don’t move!” someone yelled.
The command thundered behind him. He turned, half-falling back into the room as a pair of cops swarmed through the front door.
Cold steel clamped around his wrists, yanking his arms behind his back.
“It wasn’t me!” Jim protested, twisting against the cuffs. “I didn’t do nothing! It was that weirdo, the freak in the treehouse out back!”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, almost in unison, every head turned toward the back windows.
And there he was.
Peering over the railing of a ragged old treehouse, eyes wide and terrified, sat Barry Trello.
The sight made Jim snarl, his panic clawing up his throat. “See? I told you! It was him! He’s the crazy one!”
But no one seemed convinced. Not with the knife still in Jim’s hand, feathers clinging to him, and the mounds of shredded fabric upstairs.