Chapter 7 #2
Expecting a douchebag to come out of the car, I’m taken aback by the fact that he’s not alone. There are three of them stepping out of the sedan and all of them look like they need to find Jesus with the barrel end of a gun.
My anger spikes when only one of them turns slightly in the right direction.
Why the fuck did I take out the camera I’d placed in her room a couple of months ago?
I’d wanted a video of her to jack off to and once I’d secured the precious twenty minutes of her fucking herself with a dildo, I’d done the right thing and taken it down.
In my defense, she’d dared me, laughing at the idea that I’d be able to do something like that without her knowledge.
Clearly, she forgot who I was in my absence.
Needless to say, I’m regretting my momentary infusion of morals.
Like I said, I’m a walking red flag and never claimed to be otherwise, but no matter my faults, I have and will never hurt innocent people. Least of all someone like Berkleigh.
Okay, least of all…Berkleigh. If I had a weakness, it would be her. That’s why I hate her. Among other reasons.
Activating the facial recognition app, I sit back and watch the program do its thing. Tens of faces flash across my screen, one after the other, testing the theory of who this goon is. He was the passenger up front and my gut tells me he’s a henchman, just like the driver.
The one calling the shots has to be the back passenger. They’re all wearing suits like they’re going out to a fancy dinner. The guy from the back seat looks around, but never straight at me, before making his way to Berkleigh’s front porch.
I keep staring at him though, as the program continues searching for the other guy, the one in the front passenger seat.
With three quarters of his face toward the camera, I should have enough factors to identify him.
The whole thing is like a mathematical formula calculating the distance of key points and creating a faceprint that is unique to us all.
The technology is fucking amazing but isn’t always viable, which is why the plate would have been a great back-up.
“Gotcha!” The rectangle surrounding the guy’s picture turns green and his name and address appear just beneath it.
Gerald Raines. Originally from Albany, he moved to Lennox, about twenty miles from Blue Hills Grove, five years ago.
He is bald now, but on his recently issued driver’s license, he’s got a full head of hair.
Either he shaved it or he wore a toupée, maybe a wig.
No way someone loses that much, that fast. Cancer could be a reason, too, but I’m not going to look at his medical history just yet.
I stop typing when I hear a floorboard creak under the weight of a step. Quick and stealthy, I’m up from my desk and closing my office door behind me within seconds. When I walk back toward my bedroom where I set Berkleigh up a few hours ago, I freeze as we come face to face.
My jaw clenches and my fists turn into balls of contracted steel. How is it possible that she looks worse than before?
I’m going to fucking enjoy killing all three of those fuckers.
“I was thirsty.” Berkleigh speaks while my mind is derailing with images of torture and extreme pain, answering a question I didn’t even think to ask.
“You shouldn’t be walking.” Her ankle was swollen, probably a sprain that’ll resolve itself if she keeps the pressure off of it. My eyes are so busy checking out the state of her injury that my brain short circuits a little when my gaze lifts up and finds she’s wearing one of my sweatshirts.
Again, I don’t speak because I’m afraid to say something that non-psychotic people wouldn’t dare.
“Sorry, I was cold.” When her voice cracks just a little on the last word, it does something to me. I can’t explain it, but it feels like a weakness. A distant memory.
Without thinking and acting solely on instinct, I pick her up and carry her like a bride across the threshold all the way down to the kitchen. Once her ass is settled on the table, I turn to the cupboards and take out a glass.
“Ice?” I ask, not sure if she can stomach room temperature tap water.
When she doesn’t answer, I turn back to her and notice the tear that crashes onto her bare knee.
Motherfucker. When I catch these assholes, they will pay in stab wounds for every tear she sheds.
“Hey. You’re safe, all right?” She nods but doesn’t raise her head, just holds on to the edge of the table like she’s gripping on to a life line.
I don’t like it. That table won’t do shit for her, but I will.
Fuck my life. Am I jealous of a fucking piece of furniture?
“I know. I just…I tried to fight back, Tanner. I really, really did.” She looks up then, begging me with watery eyes to believe her. But I don’t need her to convince me. I’ve known her my whole fucking life. No fucking way she went down without a fight.
“Sweet Bee,” I place my index finger under her chin and zero in on her eyes.
I hate that they’re empty of her fire, watered down with pain and unbearable memories.
They’ll pay for that, too. “It never even crossed my mind that you didn’t get a few good hits in.
But even if you hadn’t, it doesn’t matter.
The only guilty fuckers here are the ones who hurt you. ”
My voice is low, dead calm. I’m trying to reassure her while keeping myself grounded and even keeled.
“Did I tell you there were three of them?” Fuck, she sounds like a little girl with her barely audible whispers.
Last night, she didn’t give me any specifics. More important things needed my attention. But I’m not telling her that I’ve spent the last two hours going through tapes looking for these fuckers. So, I lie.
“Yeah, you did. Just before you went to sleep.” It’s scary how easy it is for me to lie and make sure I sound one hundred percent sincere.
To be fair, I never bother lying because other people’s feelings aren’t my concern, but I can’t risk Berkleigh seeing my set-up and asking questions about shit that’ll make her brain implode.
“My house is a mess. I should call the cops. Maybe go to the hospital for a…a…” More tears track down her face, her words—or difficulty to actually form them—confirming what I’d hoped wasn’t the case.
If I think too hard about the fact that one, or God forbid, all three of those motherfuckers raped her, I will burn every fucking house down within a fifty mile radius until I find them.
In a normal world, she should absolutely go to the station, file a complaint, and wait for the process to work.
In a normal world, going to the hospital would go a long way in helping the police find her assailants by using whatever DNA they left behind.
Problem is, this is far, far, far from a normal world and if she does do all of those normal things, my form of justice won’t be served. And I can’t have that. Not on my fucking watch.
I’m about to change the subject, hoping to distract her from the shit she should be doing, when she continues to speak.
“They told me they’d come back for me if I went to the police.” Shaking her head, eyes wide with fear and indecision, she looks to me like I have all the answers. Like I’m the reasonable one.
“I’ll follow your lead, Berkleigh.” I really will not but she doesn’t need to know that. “But for now, let’s concentrate on getting you healed up, okay?” Furrowing her brow like she can’t make sense of my words, she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “So, ice or not?”
Blinking at the sudden change of subject, she nods.
Thank fuck it’s easy to derail her. I’m really not good in social settings and even less when feelings are involved. There’s no telling my reaction once I’ve reached my limit of faking it ‘till I make it.
“Do you know who the guy is?” Walking to the fridge, I press the lever. Two ice cubes fall, the sound almost aggressive in the quiet of the early morning. It’s imperative I keep my face hidden when she answers or my rage might scare her all over again.
Berkleigh has always been a gentle soul with fire in her veins. She’s got a smart mouth and high principles, but too much reality—especially when it doesn’t fit her narrative—sends her in a spiral.
A calm Berk is a malleable Berk.
“Not really. I met him at the club the other night and he didn’t appreciate me saying no to him then, either.”
Handing her the glass of water, I nod at the memory of her coming home drunk with ripped pants and a fat lip. This guy just keeps on adding to his torture bill.
Maybe I should reassure her? I mean, what I really want to say is that I’ll catch him and cut his fucking dick off so she can throw it in the river, but I have a feeling that’s not acceptable behavior. “Karma has a way of balancing out the evil shit in the world.”
Remember, it’s me. I’m Karma. And I’ll make sure these assholes never breathe again.
“I don’t want Karma to do the job,” she says, voice strong and determined. “I want to be the one to do it.”
When I look up at her, our eyes locking and our bodies freezing at her words, I realize something.
Berkleigh Brigham isn’t as pure and innocent as I thought, and that realization shouldn’t make me this fucking happy.