Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Tanner
“Miss Laney, may I go to the bathroom, please?” Berkleigh raises her hand and speaks at the same time, her leg shaking like she’s about to pee herself.
I start to rise from my seat so I can get Miss Laney’s attention—clearly, she’s too busy coddling what’s-her-face who’s always crying—but before I can yell at her, she looks up at my Sweet Bee.
“The bell’s going to ring in two minutes, Berkleigh. You can wait.”
“No, Miss Laney, I really can’t.” Sweet Bee’s voice makes that high-pitched sound it always does seconds before she starts crying. I won’t be able to control myself if I see even one tear fall down her cheek.
“Fine, go ahead. Take the hall pass and be quick or else…” There will be no or else, not if I can help it.
“I think she peed her panties.” Behind me, I hear one of the girls making fun of Berkleigh.
My hands fist so tightly my knuckles go white.
Grandpa said I’m not supposed to hit girls.
No one understands or forgives a boy who hits a girl.
I don’t get it though. What’s the difference?
She’s being mean to Sweet Bee, she should be punished the same way as anyone else.
Breathing in and out, I think back to my lessons on how to be normal, and by the time Berkleigh comes back in, I feel more in control.
“Her hair is so long, I bet she wiped herself with it.” But that wasn’t Taylor talking, that was Timmy Shaw, and Grandpa didn’t say anything about not hitting a boy.
When everyone around me starts laughing, I look up at Berkleigh and she knows. Her bottom lip trembles and I lose my entire mind.
Jumping out of my seat, I’m on top of Timmy before he even has time to know he’s about to lose a couple more teeth.
My right fist pummels his face, his tears and blood coating my arm and shirt and some even spurting on my face.
It feels so good to get this amped up anger out of me, and even as adult arms are pulling me away from the blubbering jerk, I smile at Berkleigh.
The look on her face is one of complete horror, and the punishment, both at school and at home, will be Hell on Earth, I’m sure of it.
But that’s okay. Totally worth it.
Red hot, boiling rage.
It’s not just a metaphor, it’s a physical sensation running through my veins. I’ve only felt it once before and that did not end well for me.
The first time I spilled blood, human blood, I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together and was amazed by the silky feel of it, surprised by the coppery smell that tickled my nose. The righteousness of the scene in front of me was like the calm after the storm. I was seven and he had it coming.
The second time was even better. As soon as my knife penetrated flesh and the color crimson erupted across the beige sheets, I knew a chip of my humanity had just been peeled off and there was nothing I could do about it.
I’d allowed that sudden white heat to invade my body like a flood of unwanted emotions, controlling my thoughts and actions. In doing so, I’d failed my mission.
I was eleven years old the second time I tried to kill my father, stabbing him in the gut while he slept. That’s the problem with anger. You don’t control it, it controls you, and that’s when mistakes are made.
But I learned my lesson after that.
My father healed up—apparently I’d missed every vital organ—even patting me on the head and telling me he was proud that I wasn’t a pussy and had the balls to fight back.
Then he sent me to his brother Tony’s cabin.
At first, I thought it was some form of fatherly payback until I overheard the real reason had everything to do with a tiny blonde haired angel who became my personal devil.
“If you’re gonna fuck up, do it right.” I had no idea what he meant by that, at first, but I learned really fucking quickly.
That summer, I begged, over and over, for the devil to come find me because not even Hell could be worse than where I lived for almost two months.
But when I came back to Blue Hills Grove, ready to start the sixth grade, the boy who’d tried to protect his favorite neighbor was gone.
The hero who’d wanted to avenge his little Sweet Bee was just a distant memory.
In his place, a new me had been born and emotions were no longer a part of the package.
It’s the year I turned eleven, but more importantly, it’s the year I turned into a monster.
All because Berkleigh had tattled, my father had threatened her, and I tried to kill him.
All because rage had consumed me and rational thought had evaded me.
The first two times I’d shed human blood was for Berkleigh, and now it seems history will be repeating itself.
For two months that summer, I was rewired much in the same way the Marines reprogrammed me seven years later.
At age thirty, I thought I was done with feelings. Love, hate, anger, disappointment, guilt. None of those things existed inside me anymore.
Until now.
As I sit in my armchair facing a sleeping Berkleigh and protected under the veil of darkness, that red hot, boiling rage is back.
With every one of her labored breaths, my temperature rises.
When she whimpers in her sleep, my vision takes on a scarlet hue.
Finding her beaten and battered with tears creating a steady stream down her face did something to me.
I can’t explain it, I can’t reason it. All I know is that for a brief second, eleven-year-old Tanner was back and as bloodthirsty as ever.
For the last two hours, I’ve battled with myself, forcing my body to stay here, seated and controlled so I don’t turn into eleven year old me who had no fucking clue what he was doing.
Instead of letting my anger dictate my next move, I go through the steps of my new mission, repeating the different stages in my head like a mantra.
First, I need intel.
I have cameras in place, filming every inch of my house but only in the general direction of Berkleigh’s. I get an alert on my phone if anyone breaches my property but I didn’t think to put that in place for her.
That’s going to change.
With the equipment I have in place, I should be able to get a quick ID of the target, maybe tap into the police database and see what I can find…if anything.
Then, I need recon.
Once I find him, I stalk him. A good kill goes hand and hand with thorough preparation. Who’s going to be the first person to report him missing? What are his daily activities? How can I disrupt it all without it getting anywhere near Berkleigh?
Next, I prep.
Where I kill is just as important as how, but this one is personal so I’ll need to change up my routine.
The thrill of the hunt has my skin buzzing with anticipation, knowing I won’t be numb to it. I’ll fucking enjoy every second of his pain.
Finally, I dispose.
All traces of my involvement and Berkleigh’s existence within his sphere must disappear. I’ll try to get as much intel as possible without interrogating her, but if my pickings are slim, I may not have much of a choice.
Keeping my mind busy with concrete shit that needs to be done helps to hold the rage at bay.
My fingers relax, no longer biting into the leather of the chair.
My shoulders drop just enough to relieve the tension in my back and my jaw loosens, allowing a small reprieve to my aching teeth.
Any more grinding and I’m afraid I’ll shave them down to nothing.
Under my steady scrutiny, Berkleigh hasn’t stirred for at least fifteen minutes, telling me she’s sound asleep. With one last look at her battered face and neck—the only places visible and not covered by the blanket—I stand from my chair and step out of my bedroom.
Twisting the knob all the way to the left, I pull the door closed and accompany the latch so it doesn’t make any noise. For a few seconds, I’m frozen in place, my mind warring with itself on whether to keep watch or get those tapes and memorize them.
Logic and pragmatism win. I leave my unwanted feelings at the door, turning on my heel and heading straight for my office.
If I were alone, I would leave my door open, but I can’t take the risk of Berkleigh waking up and seeing what I’m doing.
She’d freak out and I don’t have the skill set to calm her down.
Hell, I’d probably say something to make it worse.
The house is quiet and the majority of the floorboards squeak, so if she moves, I’ll hear it.
Pushing the door so that only a sliver remains open, I settle behind my desk.
First, I turn on my computer, followed by the three screens set up like a vanity mirror.
Picking up my remote, I press the on button and watch as the wall separates into a collage of television screens—one for every camera in my perimeter.
It’s a cool fucking office, all high tech and shit.
As soon as everything is ready to go, I click on my video files and pull up today’s—technically yesterday’s—recordings. The view aimed at Berkleigh’s driveway is the one I’m most interested in, at first. With any luck, the perp parked in my line of sight and I can get a plate.
Fast forwarding through the day, I pause the video when a black sedan with tinted windows crawls up the drive and stops just inches from Berkleigh’s garage door. The angle of the lens isn’t ideal. I can’t see the back plates and only the first two letters of the front plate. BG.
I’m not going to waste my energy running a partial through the DMV. The list will be too long to be useful. Maybe I won’t even need them. Who knows? The guy could be flagged by intelligence and I can get my hands on him without breaking a fucking sweat.
Pressing play, I get ready to pause the second his face comes into view.
“What the fuck?” The words spill from my mouth as I narrow my eyes at the screen. If I thought I was close to losing control earlier, the scene unraveling on the screen is testing the limits of my self control.