Chapter 22 - Faith #2
But my voice cracks on his name, my suppressed rage bleeding through. Mixed with the memory of Luca's voice when he promised to handle him. I try again, hands gripping the dresser. "Neumann needs to be destroyed. I have information. You have means."
The words sound hollow. I'm asking killers to help me eliminate a problem. Legally, of course. Or legally enough that I can still look my father in the eyes.
Who are you kidding? You want him dead. You've always wanted him dead. Just like you wanted Luca despite knowing exactly what he is.
The Polaroid still sits on my dresser. The last one Luca gave me.
"I understand," written on back in his sharp script.
I've wanted to throw it away fifty times, but my fingers won't cooperate.
Evidence of what we were for those brief moments.
Evidence that someone else sees the monster I'm becoming.
I shower with water so hot it scalds, trying to burn away the memory of his hands.
But my traitorous body remembers exactly how he made me come apart, how safe I felt surrounded by danger.
Three days, and phantom sensations haunt me.
His fingers inside me, his cock stretching me, his teeth marking my neck.
Every nerve ending remembers and wants more.
At 2 a.m., I stand before my evidence board. Photos of Neumann at galas, with his family, at the hospital the night my mother died. Financial records I've gathered. Testimonies from women who wouldn't speak publicly. Connections mapped in red string like something from a detective movie.
I step back, really looking at it for the first time in weeks.
It looks exactly like Luca's surveillance room.
Same obsessive documentation. Same patient watching. Same hunger for destruction. We're the same species, just using different hunting methods. He uses knives and bullets. I use patience and paper. But we both want blood.
I'm becoming what he is. No, that's wrong. I'm finally admitting what I've always been. The girl who dreamed of violence, who got wet when he confessed his kills, who came harder knowing what those hands had done. He didn't corrupt me. He revealed me.
The only difference is he admits what he is. I dress mine up as justice, as righteousness, as doing the right thing. But standing here in the middle of the night, staring at years of stalking Neumann, I can't pretend anymore.
I want to watch him die. Want to see the light leave his eyes like I saw my mother's go dark. Want him to know it's because of her, want him to beg like she did, want him to understand that some sins can't be forgiven.
That's not justice. That's revenge.
And tomorrow, I'm going to walk into a house full of killers and ask for their help getting it.
My phone buzzes. Sofia again, with details: "Back entrance, 7 PM sharp."
I stare at the message for a long moment, knowing that responding means choosing a path I can't come back from. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I feel phantom pressure. Luca's hand over mine. Even absent, he's guiding me toward violence.
I type: "Confirmed. I'll be attending."
The text sends with a swoosh that sounds like fate sealing, like signing a deal with devils. But my mother's photo watches from my nightstand, and I know she'd understand. She fought back too, in her way. Just not hard enough. Not with the right weapons.
I walk to my window, the one where I used to leave my crappy folded messages for Luca.
The streetlight outside flickers, casting shadows that shift like living things.
For a moment, I swear I feel eyes on me again, that familiar weight of being watched that used to make me flush with anticipation. But when I look, there's only darkness.
"I still need him dead," I whisper to the night, to whatever shadows might be listening. "If that means needing you…"
I can't finish the sentence, but my body completes it anyway. Nipples hardening, pussy clenching, every cell remembering exactly what needing him felt like.
The decision is already made. I'm choosing revenge over righteousness. Choosing to become the kind of person who makes deals with killers, who trades justice for vengeance, who admits that being good got me nothing but Neumann's laughter over corpses.
My reflection in the window shows someone I barely recognize.
Not the girl who prays every Sunday. Not the patient librarian who's spent her life playing by rules.
Someone harder. Someone who counts bodies like chess pieces and feels anger rather than horror at losing witnesses.
Someone whose body still aches for a killer's touch.
Someone who understands why Luca does what he does.
Tomorrow I stop pretending to be good.
"I'm becoming what you are," I tell the darkness, not sure if I mean Luca or my mother's killer or both. "And I'm choosing it."
The window reflects my face back, hollow-eyed from sleeplessness but resolute. This is who I am now. Who I've probably always been, underneath the cardigans and smiles.
Someone who needs Neumann dead more than I need to be good.
Someone who'll shake hands with devils to make it happen.