Chapter 22 #2
“You don’t remember us talking about that?” He’s looking at me with such wounded confusion that I squeeze my eyes shut. How long has he been using his appealing exterior to lie, gaslight, and cover up everything rotten inside him?
Long enough that I fell in love with him, moved in with him.
I’m the one who trusted the wrong person, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to start suspecting every man around me of being as dangerous as he is.
As Timms is and Navarro was. Hell, how well do I know Bart or even Gomez? And god, imagine if Hugo was—
My stomach lurches at the thought of my goofy, rose-growing, Motown-loving neighbor hiding a virulent streak of misogyny the way Greg did.
What if I’m completely wrong about him, and he ends up in my chair someday too?
Or worse, what if we keep getting close, and I get caught?
Learning I’m a killer would destroy his trust, make him doubt himself.
Maybe even leave him feeling like I do now.
I spin away from Greg and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I’ve banished those thoughts from my mind.
Once I’m feeling steady again, I drop to my knees at Greg’s feet.
I’m not going to find any answers here. I’m done.
“What are you doing?” His voice shakes, and there’s lust mixed with the loathing.
I answer it with a look of disgust. “Ew. Never again.” Instead of reaching for his zipper, I yank off his shoes, then his socks. “I also saw your comments, you know.”
“C-comments?” he asks through a ragged breath.
“Keep up, counselor.” I slap the top of his foot with the flat of my blade. “On the forum. You replied to every sad little man who commented on your videos. You used laugh emojis when they insulted me. You asked them to vote on what position to put me in next. And your grammar, Gregory? Appalling.”
“No,” he moans when I drag the knife over the top of his toes.
“Yes,” I reply. “Your choice. Big or little?”
He rallies enough to shriek, “I’ll fucking kill you!”
“How exactly?” I peer at him in genuine curiosity. “Forget about the zip ties. You won’t be able to chase me down after this. Now, big toe or little toe?”
“You crazy fucking bitch!” He screams it so loudly that something in his throat shreds. I just laugh and tap his left foot.
“Little toe it is.”
Something in him breaks when I press my knife against the side of his foot.
“I’m sorry!” he cries, the veins in his neck bulging. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Not yet, you’re not.” I look him in the eyes as I snip that little piggy right off and hold it up so he can see. “Little toe for a little man.”
He traps the scream in his chest this time, raw hatred twisting his bloody face as he thrashes. “S-s-someone will f-find out. About you.”
That costs him another toe. I chop it and toss it over my shoulder.
“T-Timms—”
“Who, your buddy in victimizing women?” I walk my fingers from his three-toed left foot to his still-intact right one. “Sorry, but he’s next.”
“You fuc… fucking…” He coughs weakly. “Cunt.”
I roll my eyes just as Fi says in my ear, “He needs a new insult. That one’s getting old.”
Fuck. I completely forgot she was listening.
But it’s okay; she’s been with me for my speed-run through every stage of grief after I learned about what Greg had done: denial, bargaining, depression.
It’s fitting she’s here for anger and amputations, and although I’m sure I’ll eventually hit acceptance, right now I’ve got something even better.
Vengeance.
“Are you still enjoying the Jackson 5 concert?” I ask her.
“Unfortunately.”
“Can you move closer to the wall? I feel like the grand finale calls for some music.”
She sighs. “You and Dr. Bore were made for each other.” But I hear the pad of her feet and then muffled music. I pluck out my earbuds and tap the speaker button on my phone, leaving a bloody smear on the screen as it fills the room with a familiar song.
“Frankly, I’m both mad and disappointed, Gregory,” I say, turning back to my ex. “I thought you cared about things like justice and right and wrong. Remember how upset you were when that drunk driver you were prosecuting died in a car crash?”
“Darren Damien.” He coughs again, blood-flecked drool leaking from the side of his mouth to pool on his chest. “I was gonna l-let him off with… l-light sentence. Didn’t deserve a hard time for killing some… some used-up female sucking cock for f-favors.”
The revelation leaves me speechless, but Felicity steps in to murmur, “Stay focused.”
I ignore her as what I thought I understood about my ex shifts yet again.
“Of course you were going to use your position to help one of your gross little friends.” I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point. Then I lean close to faux-whisper over the music. “Well, here’s a secret: I killed your drunk driver buddy because unlike you, I do care about justice.”
“Y-you… you…” His voice is faint, and his head lists to the side as he stares up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes.
“No mission creep,” Fi reminds me. “You’re almost done.”
“Right. Thanks.” I turn back to find my nearly catatonic ex slumped sideways as far as the zip ties will allow. “I thought part of me might regret this, but you know what?” I pause to let the song’s chorus kick in, then tell him, “Killing you actually is easy as one-two-three.”
Snip, snip, snip go the first three toes of his right foot, in perfect sync with the music. But it barely gets a reaction out of him.
“Aww, come on,” I cajole. “We’ve got another verse, you quitter.”
“Seriously, Greg,” Fi agrees over the speaker. “It’s as simple as Do-Re-Mi.”
When I repeat the synchronized snips on the remaining fingers of his right hand, Greg’s whole body convulses, then goes limp.
“Did he just…?” Fi asks.
“Not sure.” I slap his cheek, my hand landing wetly on the blood coating his face. “Hey. Greg.”
I grip his jaw and squeeze but get no reaction.
“Um. I think he’s dead.”
“That was faster than expected,” Felicity observes.
“Yeah,” I strip off my glove to turn his head and press my fingers to his neck, disappointment growing when there’s not a single flutter. “When we were together, he was on some pretty serious gear that he got from a guy at the gym.”
Fi makes a thoughtful noise. “Steroids would tax his heart, so between the shock and the blood loss…”
I grip my ex’s hair, lifting his head so I can peer into his eyes. There’s not a hint of the compelling man he used to be in that vacant stare.
“Such a shame,” I say with a sigh. “Hugo’s got at least three more Jackson 5 songs to get through before he’s done for the night.”
“Mountain bride,” Fi says with an exaggerated cough.
I won’t smile at that, not after what I’ve done tonight.
“Focus.” I say it more for me than for her as I slice my blade across Greg’s throat, cutting through to his voice box and guaranteeing he’s too dead to spew another syllable of his toxic bullshit.
Then I take a step back and survey the disaster I’ve made of the formerly bright-white room.
Puddles and whorls of blood spread across the floor, and fingers and toes in various sizes are scattered throughout like the chunky bits in crunchy peanut butter.
Hmm. I could go for a sandwich right now.
“Want to leave that until tomorrow?” Felicity asks.
“Nah. I’ll clean up and get him into the tank.”
“You have all the fun,” she says with a pout that I should’ve seen coming. The woman loves her water cremation tank so much I almost hate to deny her the pleasure of dropping Greg into the alkaline hydrolysis that’ll transform his body into white bone powder and a little bit of brown liquid.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “So much fun.” I survey the situation with my hands on my hips. “Do you mind if I stay over tonight? This’ll take a while.”
“Please do. Your room’s ready.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll just crash on the cot.”
In her silence, I hear everything she’s not saying: I’m rigid and ridiculous. My rules make no sense. I’m hurting more than myself with this refusal.
“I’m tired, Fi,” I say wearily.
“Okay.” Her voice is quiet, and for a second, I think she’s going to let it go.
She doesn’t.
“I guess if you’re staying on the cot, I’ll just cozy up in your bed and masturbate at top volume to confirm for myself just how well noise carries from your side of the duplex. Want me to shout your stealthy-hot neighbor’s name when I come? We both know he’ll be listening in.”
“You wouldn’t.” I gasp-laugh in horror. “And he wouldn’t either!”
“You sure about that? When I used your shower earlier today, I wondered if your neighbor might appreciate some loud singing so he could picture you sensually working shampoo through your hair, totes naked.”
Something low in my belly clenches at the thought of Hugo listening to me and liking what he hears.
God, I’m turning just as weird as he is.
“He’s harmless,” I say firmly, shutting down all images of walls and Hugo and his big hand gripping his big cock while I—
Shit.
“He’s just your average, everyday psychologist virgin with a PhD. Nothing to see here.” Maybe if I say it out loud, I’ll believe it myself. “Now please go to bed. Quietly.”
“Fine,” she says with a much-aggrieved sigh. Then her voice turns serious. “How do you feel, love?”
I force myself to look at my ex’s bloody, pale, very dead face as I consider the question.
“Good. Really good, actually.” I crane my neck to the left, then the right. “It’s like carving out a malignant cancer. Usually I’m doing it for, like, the greater good. But this cancer was growing inside of me.”
Felicity’s quiet for a beat before she says, “I’m glad. Because fuck him.”
“Fuck him,” I agree. Once we end the call, I get started on cleanup, knowing I’ll sleep like a baby tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll cauterize my relationship with Hugo so I can put my focus on Lester Timms, where it needs to stay.