Chapter 29
Story
THEO
Falling in love was never part of the plan.
Eighteen years. I’ve spent eighteen fucking years waiting for the moment that those bastards pay for their crimes.
After Jaime’s funeral, I vowed to get revenge.
But I knew it would take time. I knew I’d have to be patient.
Every year, I laid down another piece of brick that would ultimately lead me to my crowning achievement.
But then she came into my life. I had no idea she would shift the ground beneath my feet.
But I needed her. I read her books. I applied her theories of patterns and motive.
I implemented the appropriate theatrics, adding dashes and sprinkles of truth into my art.
I used numerology, theology, history, everything in the psychological bible to lead the Bureau to believe we had a ritualistic serial killer on our hands.
And once the death toll hit three, I asked to be transferred. I needed to be part of the investigation. I never tampered with evidence. I never lied.
But I did do the most foolish thing a man with nothing to lose could do—I found someone to live for.
Red and blue sirens flash, reflecting off the model home that Kaleb Cross claimed as his fortress. This planned community was supposed to be a haven for the middle class but the developers ran out of money and the project was abandoned, alongside dozens of half-finished homes outside of Albany.
Safia perches on the edge of an ambulance, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders. Paramedics tend to her artificial injuries as the cops take diligent notes, mouths gaped open as I explain what happened.
I don’t need to lie to the police. Kaleb kidnapped Safia. He was stalking her. He murdered her doorman. He had a knife to her throat. He had to be eliminated. Permanently.
The fact that Kaleb knew what I did in the shadows was merely a coincidence.
I would’ve killed him either way. The moment he put his hand on Safia, his time on this earthly plane was over.
He should be grateful I didn’t make him suffer.
I know how to make people suffer. I’ve had years to hone that particular craft.
That head shot was a mercy kill. For Safia.
Because she cared about that twisted man. And I care about Safia.
“How’d you know where to find her?” a rookie cop asks, glancing at Safia.
Her expression remains neutral, unreadable. She hasn’t said a word about my…hobby to cops. She still has time to report me, to turn me in. I wouldn’t blame her. A normal woman would run away from me screaming. She hasn’t run yet. She hasn’t screamed. She’s simply been watching me.
“We got a tip,” I reply, clipped.
I won’t mention that the tip came from Felipe Randini after I beat his face to a bloody pulp. I’ve been sitting on this location for weeks now. Perhaps I should’ve nipped Kaleb’s fantastical plans in the bud when I learned of his potential hideout. It’s my fault. I thought Randini was lying.
“I can send you a full report tomorrow,” I add, glancing over my shoulder. Safia is no longer sitting down. She cocks her head at me, almost beckoning me to come to her. I look back at the rookie. “If that’s everything, I trust your department will cooperate with the NYPD to close this case.”
The rookie nods. “Of course, Agent Kane,” he says, then walks away.
My fingertips tingle as I slowly stride toward Safia, wanting to take my time in case this is the last moment I’ll ever get to spend in her presence.
Her thick, dark hair cascades down her shoulders, her rich, green eyes locked with mine.
I wish I could see into her mind, prepare myself for what’s to come.
I want to hold her in my arms, feel her heart beat against my skin.
I want to devour that smart mouth of hers.
I want to touch her. At least one more time.
Anger washes over me as I take in the vintage blue dress she’s wearing. He touched her. He dressed her up like a fucking doll. No one touches my little lamb. No one but me.
“Would you like a change of clothes?” I ask in a calm tone, keeping a careful distance. “I have extras in the trunk.”
Her cold gaze flickers clockwise around my face, slow and deliberate. Her silence leaves a giant hole inside my cracking heart. She knows the truth now. She knows, and yet, she’s still here.
Watching. Observing. Deciding.
“Sweats,” Safia says after two agonizing minutes. She holds her head up high, shoulders stiff. “I'd like to change into sweats.”
I nod toward the idling SUV and we walk over together, Safia a few steps behind me. I pop the trunk and dig out an FBI branded sweatsuit. I hand the clothes to Safia, and she hugs the matching set to her chest.
“Turn around,” she says, voice stern. I blink, complying with her request. A few seconds pass. “I’m done.”
I turn back around, fists clenched. “Comfortable?”
She expels a tiny scoff, shaking her head. “Physically, yes. I’m very comfortable.”
I perk a brow, reining in a smirk. “But emotionally…?”
She narrows her eyes on me. “What do you think?”
I give her a playful shrug. “I imagine you have many questions.”
Safia looks around, then sighs. “Not here.” She gestures to the SUV. “Get in the car, Agent Kane. We’ve got a long drive back to Manhattan.”
“You’re willing to be in a confined space with me?” I cock my head. “Knowing what you know?”
Safia sighs. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, Theodore—I am not afraid of you.”
“Very well.” I open the passenger’s side door. “Hop in, little lamb.”
She shoots me a glare, sitting down. “I’d keep the terms of endearment on standby, Agent Kane. I may not be afraid of you, but I have no desire to lie in bed with a psychopath.”
I give her a feigned pout, dropping my voice to a raspy timbre as I place my hand on her thigh. “I think we both know what you desire, little lamb.”
She pushes my wandering hand away. “The truth. That’s what I desire.”
“Don’t worry, Safia,” I say, closing the door. “I’ll make all your desires come true.”
I round the vehicle and hop into the driver’s side, starting the engine. We pull out of the cramped driveway, past local police cruisers and ambulances. When the tires hit the freshly paved freeway, Safia shifts her body toward me and asks the question that will unravel twenty-six years of pain.
“Why?”
And so I tell her. I tell her the truth. I tell her about Jaime, the foster home, Bocco’s. I tell her that it was my fault that Jaime was killed. That Jaime was caught recording corrupt officials. I tell her the names of the patrons responsible for her murder.
I tell her everything.
Karl Andrews was a prosecutor eighteen years ago, not a judge. He manipulated legal proceedings to help the cartel get off scot-free during drug busts. He also intimidated witnesses and destroyed crucial evidence surrounding Jaime’s death.
George Burg and Rick Knowles were rookie NYPD cops. They had direct lines to the cartel within the city. They’re the ones who carried out the attack on Jaime. I made sure they suffered the most.
Tyler Saunders and Reginald Wharton bankrolled the poker room.
They also funded the cover-up. And then there was Hank Jefferies.
Poor Hank. He wasn’t a horrible man. Simply a desperate man.
His debt was wiped the moment he agreed to stay quiet about the murder.
He should’ve spoken up. He’d still be alive otherwise.
“That’s six,” Safia says, tone clinical. “You mentioned there were seven individuals involved.”
“Edward Vaughn-Morris,” I say, keeping my gaze on the foggy road ahead. “He’s the one who coordinated the entire cover-up operation. He was also on the cartel’s payroll.”
I glance over and watch Safia’s eyes widen. “Edward Vaughn-Morris, the director of the DEA, is working for the cartel?”
“Was. I think he left that particular side hustle a few years ago when the president nominated him for the director position," I say. “He was only an agent when he orchestrated Jaime’s murder.”
She nods, chewing on her bottom lip. It’s a lot to take in, but my Safia is brilliant. She’s logical, analytical, and I know she’ll see that my actions are justified, required even.
“Edward Vaughan-Morris is still alive,” she notes flatly. “You haven't killed him yet.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Do you plan to kill him?”
“No.”
In my peripheral vision, I can see Safia frown. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s someone pretending to be a serial killer, Dr. Hadid,” I reply smugly. “That person must be caught and arrested and tried for murder.”
“You’re going to frame him,” she deduces immediately.
Like I said, my girl is brilliant.
I nod. “That’s the plan.”
“I see,” she breathes, relaxing into the seat.
The car is silent for over ten minutes. The muffled hum of the engine soothes my fraying nerves as I wait patiently for her to answer the unspoken question.
What now?
She has a decision to make. Stay or stray.
I won’t force her hand. I won’t influence her choice.
It’s hers to make. Tonight will be a defining moment in Safia’s life.
Either she’ll stay the course and continue to see the world in black and white.
Or she’ll stray. Deviate. If I’m lucky enough, she’ll join me in my world.
A world painted in glorious shades of gray.
“Do you regret it?” Safia asks in a whisper. “Killing those men?”
“No.”
“But they had families…”
“And? Everyone has a family, Safia. Being a father doesn’t make an individual exempt from justice.”
“People change,” she mutters absentmindedly. “It’s been eighteen years.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “There is no statute of limitations on murder, Safia. The passing of time does not change the scars of history. They were all complicit, and thus, they were all guilty.”
She shakes her head. “Then why not turn them in? Why not go through the proper legal channels? You keep saying it’s about justice, but it’s not, is it? It’s revenge.”