CHAPTER TEN
Dean made a phone call, and in less than ten minutes, the man Gerald called Jesse showed up, smelling like weed and dressed like he’d spent his day at the local skateboarding park.
He took one look at me, sitting on one of Gerald’s leather sofas—per Dean’s instructions—and said, “Well, you’re one scary motherfucker, aren’t ya?”
“Jesse, this is a friend of mine,” Gerald said by way of introduction.
The skater guy stepped over the body, assessing the work cut out for him as he pulled on a pair of gloves and asked, “Does your friend have a name? Or a, uh … a face?”
“You won’t concern yourself with that,” Gerald replied, unamused.
Jesse nodded easily before offering a two-fingered salute. “Cool. Whatever you say, chief.”
I watched him work, and though I had my doubts after seeing his choice of attire and smelling his choice of recreational activities, I could admit that he was thorough.
He spent nearly two hours making sure everything was spotless and unlikely to carry any trace bits of DNA, including Gerald’s fancy Persian rug.
Unfortunately, that also meant he demanded I remove my suit and gloves, and I immediately protested.
“Don’t be stupid,” Gerald said, heading toward the drink cart for the fourth time that night. “You’re covered in God only knows what.”
I wanted to argue with him, but he was right.
There was blood, vomit, and brain matter all over me—and that was likely just the tip of the iceberg.
I could explain some of it away easily, given my line of work, but if someone went looking for any of the dead men under this roof and if I could be placed at the party, I’d be brought in for questioning, and my life would be over.
“I’m keeping the mask,” I negotiated, slipping my jacket off and handing it to Jesse.
He stuffed it into a garbage bag as he looked up at the mask, his expression dubious. “Man, I dunno. I don’t think that’s a good—"
“Let him keep it for now,” Gerald said with another drink in hand. Then he addressed me with a raise of his glass. “We’ll make sure to have extras on hand from now on.”
Extras. He expected this to be a regular occurrence.
Dean nodded in agreement. “I’ll take his measurements for suits and gloves as well.”
“Yes, that’s a great idea,” Gerald said, watching me as I stripped down to nothing but my boxer briefs. “Good thinking, Dean.”
“And am I supposed to just walk out of here like this?” I asked as Jesse left the room with all my clothes in the garbage bag.
“I’ll get you something clean to wear now,” Dean said with a curt bow of his head before hurrying out of the room, closing the door behind him, and leaving me alone with Gerald once again.
The events of the night barreled through me like a tsunami, and I dropped onto the couch, ripping my mask off and holding my head in my hands. My shoulders sagged with the weight of losing Leonard and of stealing someone else’s life away under the guise of revenge.
What am I supposed to do now?
Where the hell am I supposed to go?
“You’re a murderer now, Abraham,” Gerald said gently, reading my mind.
That word—murderer—tore through my soul, leaving behind a ravaged wasteland. It was done, I couldn’t take it back, and it felt so final and damning.
Because it is.
“You did that,” I whispered. “You forced me.”
“You can blame me all you want, but I gave you a choice, and you chose to kill him.”
I sniffed back the guilt and nodded, leaning back against the couch across from his. “No, you’re right. I did choose. But it was a bullshit choice, and you know it.”
“Still guilty,” he replied with a good-natured smirk.
“So are you.”
My father rolled his eyes as he lifted his tumbler to his lips. “Kid, if you think that fazes me at this point in my life, you are sorely mistaken. And eventually, this won’t faze you either.”
I pressed my lips into a terse line and wondered how many lives he had taken. Would I even want to know?
Dean returned, but he remained in the doorway as I put the mask back on. The gesture was appreciated, but I didn’t say as much as he approached and handed me a bundle of clothes.
“Not sure they’ll fit,” he said apologetically. “You’re a little taller than most of the guys around here.”
“Better than nothing,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
“Before you leave, I’ll take your measurements.”
I nodded, though I wanted to refuse. I didn’t want my measurements taken. I didn’t want to think about why they needed them, why they assumed I’d need changes of clothes, despite knowing in my gut the unspoken reason behind all of this.
“And what can I call you?” Dean asked, folding his hands over his waist.
“You don’t need to call me anything.”
He blinked, seemingly taken aback, before swinging his uncertain gaze toward Gerald. “Well, I just thought—"
“He is my son,” Gerald cut him off. “Nobody outside of this room is to know that he is my son, but that’s who he is. So, you will refer to him with the same respect you show me. You will call him nothing but sir in the presence of others, but when you’re alone or with me, Mr. Crowley will be fine.”
Mr. Crowley.
The name stirred something awful in my gut.
Although I’d never legally changed my name, I’d thought of myself as nothing but a Llewellyn for years.
Abraham Llewellyn, Bram Llewellyn. Initially, I had been Leonard’s nephew until he started referring to us all as his sons, adopted or not.
I hadn’t been a Crowley since I had been a kid, the one who lived in a world of dirty streets and dirty, sick people with no regard for morals or the welfare of children.
But the Llewellyn name invoked something good, and that was something I wasn’t.
I no longer deserved it.
I wasn’t sure I ever had.
Hadn’t I once said I’d only been playing a part, a bullshit role? Maybe that was all it’d ever been—a game not unlike a child playing house—and now it was time to join the real world and become who I was always meant to be.
Abraham Crowley.
“Yes, sir,” Dean answered. Then he bowed his head to both my father and me and said, “Mr. and Mr. Crowley,” before taking his leave once again, giving me the privacy to get dressed.
And as I did so, Gerald filled me in on everything else.
Leonard’s body had been wrapped in a tarp and put in the back of the hearse.
The tracker on my phone had been wiped, all evidence that I’d been to this house or party erased.
He reiterated that, before I left the house, I was to allow Dean to take my measurements so that they could ensure I always had a spare change of clothes or two kept at the house.
"And why would I need to do that?" I finally asked as I pulled the sweatpants on, surprised that they did fit my longer-than-average legs while the sleeves of the sweatshirt barely touched my wrists.
Gerald glanced at me with a patronizing look on his face as he smiled. "Just in case. You never know," was all he bothered to say before asking, "What does your schedule look like?"
"Why?"
"Just wondering," he said casually. "Not a big deal."
I studied him for a moment as he examined his fingernails, like he was looking for specks of dirt.
"When are you going to tell me what's going on? What the hell are you up to?"
He swung his gaze toward mine and shrugged. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"You're honestly telling me there's no reason you need my measurements or my schedule or anything? You have no fuckin' tricks up your sleeve?"
"Tricks?" He shook his head. "There are no tricks."
"Somehow, I don't believe you."
"Well, that's on you, kiddo," he said.
Then he yawned, stretching his arms overhead. "It's way past my bedtime, and my wife is waiting for me," he announced abruptly. "You remember your way downstairs?"
"I can figure it out."
"Good," he said. "I'll see you soon."
Then he left the room, and as soon as he was gone, in walked Dean, holding a tape measure.
***
The hearse was left on the large circular driveway, just outside the house’s main entrance. I dared to peek through the back window, between the drapes, and saw the form of a body wrapped in a white sheet.
All at once, the events of the night steamrolled over me, pummeling my gut repeatedly, and I tore the stupid mask off my head, letting it hang from my hand as I bent over and heaved, expelling what little bit of sustenance was in my stomach.
I'm a murderer.
I squeezed my eyes shut and heaved again, an uncontrollable reaction to the vision of the man's convulsing body.
That was my fault. I had done that.
I'd taken him away from his family. He was someone's father, husband, son, friend, brother. I hadn't even known his name.
Would that make it better? I wondered. Would it change things to put a name to the face?
My hand gripped the side of the hearse as my body violently purged itself of bile and nothing, clenching and unclenching, until tears streamed from my eyes and sobs shook my shoulders.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
"Are you okay?"
Fuck. I gasped at the sound of her voice, nearly choking on vomit in the process.
I hadn't heard the door open, hadn’t heard the footsteps of someone approaching.
I turned quickly, blocking her view of my face as I muttered with a lie, "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
I shook my head, casting her concerns away. "Really, I'm okay. I … I had too much to drink," I lied again. "It’s been a long night."
"I wasn’t even aware anyone was still here. I thought the festivities ended a while ago," she murmured, her tone leaning toward sardonic. "Can I get you something for your stomach? Pepto maybe?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, before adding, “Thank you though.”
She hummed a slight acknowledging noise, then said, “You were upset about that old man before. The one in the library."
I took a few deep breaths, quelling the brutal contractions of my stomach a bit, and I managed to stand, pulling the sweatshirt's hood up to cover my hair, but I didn't turn to face her.
"Yes."
"Did you know him?"
I didn't say yes or no. I couldn’t. If she learned his name, if she already knew it, she could easily track him back to the funeral home and then find me.
I couldn’t leave such a risk up to chance, so instead, I replied, "He had no place being here."
Why were you here?
I wished I could go home and ask him. I wished I could bang on his bedroom door angrily until he opened it and gave me the answers I needed in order to put my mind at ease. But what was the point in wishing for something that could never be?
It was as pointless as hoping there could be something more between me and this rare, exquisite gem of a woman, who, for some reason, couldn’t leave me to purge in peace.
"And what about you?" she asked, her voice light and gentle, the sound resting weightlessly against my heavy soul, like a soothing balm.
"What about me?" I replied, longing for a life in which I could allow her or anyone to heal me.
"Do you have a place here?"
I swallowed against another bout of nausea, knowing damn well there was unlikely a chance for me to be healed in this life or any hereafter, then quickly answered, "I didn't think so."
In that moment, I decided I wouldn’t give her the opportunity to continue this conversation, and I wouldn’t give myself the opportunity to believe I was worthy of being in her presence.
I opened the driver's door to find the keys sitting on the seat.
Dean is certainly efficient, I thought as I snatched my mask from off the stone driveway, tossed it into the car, and climbed in behind the wheel.
Then, before I closed the door, before I could drive away and put an end to this hellish night, I murmured, "Goodbye, Analise."
And I didn't dare look back as I sped away from Seint Manor in Hollow Cove, hoping I'd never have to venture between its walls again, while knowing damn well how dangerous hope could be.