Chapter 13
Shaw
Iparked in the dark. The engine clicked over to silence, headlights throwing a cold strip of white on the garage’s cinderblock.
My hands stayed locked around the steering wheel, knuckles bleached, nails denting the fake leather.
The inside of my mouth tasted like copper, like the air in a crime lab.
I made myself count the breaths, then started over when I realized I’d missed a number.
In the rearview, my face looked wrong: jaw tight, something simmering at the corners of my eyes, skin pallid in the sodium vapor trickling through the slit of the parking structure.
She’d stood there, and I hadn’t pulled the trigger. That was the line I replayed. I hadn’t pulled the trigger, and she hadn’t even flinched.
I got out of the car. The walk to the apartment was short, two flights up, the walkway bare except for last week’s pizza flyer crumpled by my door.
She was there waiting, as I knew she would be, half-shadow in the yellow halo of the porch bulb.
She wore heels, the sound of them impatient on the concrete, arms crossed, coat cinched too tight at the waist. Cara was not the kind of woman who let herself be left hanging.
Her silhouette, slim and severe, always reminded me of those stick-and-ink drawings in autopsy reports: the outlines you fill in later with whatever mess is left.
She didn’t wait for me to get close. “You going to tell me what happened to you the other night,” she said, not a question, “or are we just pretending it didn’t?”
I stepped past her. She followed, snapping at my heels like an angry ghost. I could smell her perfume—something metallic and sweet—before I heard the click of her purse on the table.
“Here’s the key you gave me.” She laid the key on the table. “I know this is bad timing.”
I chuckled. “You have no idea.”
I thought about Spade, her violence, the violence in the way we fucked against the wall.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light.
I never used the overheads, just the single yellow bulb over the sink, which left the rest of the place in a murky half-light.
The case files were still open on the table, manila folders fanned out, grainy printouts of crime scene photos in a little migration across the wood.
She made a disgusted noise in her throat, the same as last time, and I moved to intercept her sightline.
“Don’t,” I said, barely louder than a thought.
She glared at me, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Who is she?”
I shut the folder. “No one.”
She smiled, all teeth, and I realized then how much I’d underestimated her patience. “You never even looked at me,” she said, stepping in close, voice dropping to a simmer.
I watched her, the way her lips curled up at the edge, the vein that ticked in her neck. “I don’t have anything to give you tonight, Cara.”
She didn’t move. “That’s not what it looks like from here.”
I should have told her to leave. I should have walked past her, locked myself in the bathroom, and sat on the toilet lid with the lights off until the world recalibrated.
Instead, I reached out and took her wrist, the way you’d take a pen or a knife, and pulled her down the hall toward the bedroom.
She didn’t resist. Not at first. Not until my grip got too tight, and then she made a little sound, surprised and sharp, but she kept pace anyway, heels digging into the carpet, coat sloughing off one shoulder.
The bedroom was exactly as I’d left it: bed unmade, top sheet in a knot near the footboard, nightstand covered in a mess of empty glasses and a single gun magazine.
The curtains were cheap and thin, bleeding the city’s neon into a grid of blue and pink.
She kicked off her shoes, shedding her coat and shirt in a single motion, like she’d been practicing for this confrontation in her head all day.
I shoved her against the wall, her teeth already sinking into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
I didn’t flinch. My palm cracked across her ass once, twice, the sound sharp and wet in the dim room, then I spun her, bent her over the edge of the mattress, and yanked her skirt up past her hips.
No preamble. I drove two fingers straight into her cunt, found her already slick and angry, and fucked them in deep while my other hand pinned her neck down.
“Spread,” I growled. She hesitated, so I slapped the inside of her thigh until the skin bloomed red. “Wider. This hole’s mine tonight. Say it.”
She hissed through her teeth but obeyed, knees sliding apart on the sheets. “This hole’s yours.”
“Louder. Like you mean it.”
“This hole’s yours,” she repeated, voice cracking when I added a third finger and twisted.
I pulled out, wiped her own slick across her asshole, and pressed the head of my cock there without warning.
She bucked. I held her hips in both hands, thumbs digging bruises into the bone, and shoved forward until the ring gave and I sank halfway into her ass in one brutal thrust. She screamed into the mattress.
I didn’t stop. I fucked her open in short, vicious strokes, each one deeper, until my balls slapped her cunt and her whole body jolted with every impact.
“Tell me what you are,” I said, voice low against her ear.
She shook her head. I reached under, found her clit, and pinched hard. “Say it.”
“I’m your filthy fucktoy,” she gasped.
“Again.”
“I’m your filthy fucktoy—fuck—your property to wreck.”
I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and shoved my cock into her mouth before she could catch her breath.
She gagged, eyes watering, but I held her head and fucked her throat until spit ran down her chin and onto her tits.
When I finally let her up, she lunged for my mouth.
I turned away, forehead pressed to the mattress beside her, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached.
The memory of Spade’s cold stare flashed behind my eyes—how nothing I did, not even the gun, had touched her.
I needed to overwrite it. Needed to ruin something.
I dragged her to the center of the bed, tied her wrists to the headboard with my belt, and climbed between her legs.
Her cunt was swollen, dripping. I slapped it twice, watched it clench, then drove back into her ass in one long stroke.
She arched, cursing. I fucked her like I was trying to break the frame—hips snapping, sweat flying, the wet slap of skin loud and filthy.
Every thrust punched a grunt out of her.
I leaned down, bit the side of her breast hard enough to leave teeth marks, then licked the bruise.
“Whose ass is this?” I demanded.
“Yours,” she panted.
“Whose cunt?”
“Yours.”
“Say the whole thing. Make me believe it.”
She met my eyes, furious and wrecked. “My ass, my cunt, my mouth—they’re all yours to use and ruin. I’m nothing but your hole to fill.”
The words lit something savage. I untied one wrist, flipped her again, and hauled her onto my lap so she faced away.
She sank down on my cock, taking it to the root in her ass, and I reached around to shove three fingers into her cunt while my other hand wrapped her throat.
She rode me hard, slamming down, the wet sounds obscene.
I met every drop with an upward thrust, bruising her hips all over again, until her thighs shook and she started to come.
I didn’t let her finish. I pulled her off, bent her over the pillows, and hammered back into her ass until my vision whited out. Cum flooded her in thick pulses. I stayed buried, grinding deep, marking her inside while she trembled and gasped.
When I finally pulled out, she collapsed forward, wrists still half-tied, ass leaking, skin marked everywhere my hands and teeth had landed.
I wiped my cock on her thigh, untied the belt, and dropped it on the floor.
She didn’t move. The room smelled like sweat, sex, and the copper tang of the bite on my shoulder.
Outside, rain started against the window.
Then, my world turned into a clusterfuck.
I reached up and found her throat. Not rough, not at first—just pressure, the way you’d test a blood vessel for a pulse.
I held her there, thumb to the pulse point, and she stared at me, eyes wide, understanding nothing and everything all at once.
I squeezed. She brought her hands up, first to my arms, then to my face, and then her nails found my wrists.
She dug in, harder, and I kept the pressure steady.
Her breath hitched. Then there was no sound at all, just the hush of sheets shifting, the mattress creaking under our combined weight.
She went still beneath me, a quiet so total it rang in my ears.
I didn’t let go. Not right away. There was something about the silence, the absence of her, that felt like a clean break. When I finally released her, her head lolled sideways, mouth open, eyes still open, staring at a patch of ceiling that was more shadow than anything else.
I sat on the edge of the bed, sweat cooling on my arms, and looked at my hands.
They didn’t tremble. My breath was regular, heartbeat steady.
The apartment was silent, the kind of silence that settles after a power outage, and I wondered if anyone in the building had heard.
It should have frightened me that I felt nothing, but it didn’t.
It felt like proof that I was finally, perfectly empty.
I moved through the apartment with the lights off.
The city’s spill bled through the blinds, striping the walls in watery pink and gray.
I found the storage closet by memory, not bothering with the hall light, and took down the blue tarp folded neatly on the top shelf.
I’d bought it at a hardware store two years ago—heavy gauge, industrial grade, something the guy at the register said could handle roof repairs or hauling debris.
I spread it out on the bedroom carpet, smoothing the corners, careful to line it up square.
The crinkle of plastic was loud in the hush.
Cara was heavier than I remembered. Not by much, but enough that my back protested when I pulled her from the bed and onto the tarp.
Her hair caught on the rough sheet and fanned out, dark against the blue, mouth still open, skin already cooling.
I closed her mouth with my thumb and forefinger, the way you’d close a drawer.
She made a noise—just air moving, but it startled me.
I wrapped her tight, double-folding the edges, and taped it off at the seams, just like I’d seen in the coroner’s training videos.
There was a minute—maybe less—when I sat back on my heels and just looked at her, wondering if I’d missed a step, if I was forgetting some crucial detail that would come back to bite me in the ass in a week or a month.
Nothing came. I lifted her, fireman’s carry, and took the service stairs down to the garage. No one saw me. No one ever did.
I popped the trunk and settled her in, making sure the tarp wouldn’t catch in the latch, then closed it with a whisper of metal on metal.
I walked back to the apartment, rinsed the blood off my wrists, and changed my shirt.
I took the stairs two at a time, out to the car, and started the engine.
I left the radio off. I didn’t need anything between me and the drive.
The city peeled away in layers—strip malls, chain-link, little motels that all looked the same under the floodlights.
The highway out of Vegas was always empty this time of night, a four-lane deadfall lined with black desert and the glow of distant casinos, each one a failed lighthouse.
I drove north, keeping it just under ten over the limit, and let the miles slide under me.
At the Lake Mead turnoff, the sky was still black, no hint of dawn.
The access road was gravel, washboarded and rough, the kind of thing no one but a park ranger or a drunk fisherman would bother with.
I knew the gate would be open—the padlock never closed, just looped for show—so I swung in and followed the road to the end.
The shoreline was low, rocks exposed, water down from the drought.
The air was cold and dry, and I could smell the salt from the receded edge.
I’d been here before. Different circumstances, different time of day, but the same spot. Now it was just me, and the only thing on my mind was how light Cara felt on my shoulder compared to the weight in my chest.
I took her to the water’s edge, boots sinking in gravel.
The tarp was slick, and she slid down the rocks without a sound.
The surface of the lake was glass, not even a ripple.
I rolled her in, slow, and watched her sink.
The tarp ballooned, took on water, and pulled her under in a single, seamless motion.
When the surface closed up, it was as if nothing had ever been there at all.
On the way back up the bank, I saw headlights—two at first, then four.
I ducked, flattening myself behind a boulder, one hand pressed to the cold rock to steady my breath.
The lights swept the access road but didn’t pause, didn’t search.
Just a car, maybe a patrol, maybe nothing at all.
I waited until the darkness rolled back in, then climbed the rest of the way, brushing the sand from my hands.
That’s when I heard it: the low whine of a motorcycle, far off but coming closer.
The sound was familiar, and it brought the hair up on my arms before my brain caught up.
The engine wasn’t a threat, just a presence, a reminder that nothing in this world is ever really unobserved.
I kept to the shadows, watching as the bike rolled past the gate and down the main road, engine low and steady, the rider leaning into the curve, dark hair blown back in the wind.
A woman’s silhouette, unmistakable. She didn’t look my way, and I didn’t move.
I waited until the taillight faded to nothing, then stood up, dusted off my jeans, and made my way to the car.
I slid behind the wheel, hands on the stick, and for a second I just sat there. The file on the passenger seat caught the light—a corner of Spade’s face, pixelated and unreadable. I touched it, just once, then pulled out onto the road and headed for home.
In the rearview, my reflection was there waiting.
I watched it the whole way back, face unmoving, eyes unblinking, and for the first time in weeks, I saw myself not as I was but as I’d always been.
The city lights came up on the horizon, and the only thing I felt was the gentle pull of inevitability, drawing me forward.