Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
He blinks at me, sweating, blood dripping onto the sheets. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Here’s your other option. I’m going to beat you the way you beat me. I’m going to hurt you, very badly, and you’re going to take it. When I’m done, you’ll tell your buddy Detective Danny with the mustache that you two aren’t going to bother Sara ever again. Because if you do, I will be back, and I really will pull the trigger. Don’t think that I won’t be able to get inside a second time. Add all the cameras you want. All the locks you want. Nothing will keep me away from you, Detective.”
“Fuck, you don’t know—”
I hit him with my gun. I hit him again, and again, and I drag him from the bed by his ankle. He falls to the floor with a thud and I kick him, over and over. I wore my nice boots for this. I make sure I hit him in the chest just the way he hit me, toe angling at his ribs, trying to break them. I want him to suffer like I suffered. I want him to feel the pain I still feel now. And most of all, I want him to think twice the next time he considers touching my Sara.
When I’m done, he’s a bloody mess. He’s groaning and barely conscious. I take out my phone and snap a picture.
“Beautiful,” I say quietly and bend over to pat his cheek. “Remember what I said, Detective. If you go near Sara, I’ll come into your house and end you. There’s no such thing as safety anymore.”
I turn and leave. I send Sara two messages on the way out.
The first is the photograph of Detective John. I crop out his face, but she’ll know.
The second is a message. He won’t bother you again.
I hit send, hop the fence and stroll back to my car, whistling.
Chapter 27
Sara
I stare at the picture of Detective John’s beaten and bloody body as I sit in the passenger side of my father’s car while he drives us to the Oak Club.
Since the moment I woke up to this horror, I haven’t been able to look away.
I don’t know what Angelo was thinking, sending me something like this. The body on the floor is gruesome, and I keep thinking he’s dead, but I didn’t see anything about a murdered detective on the news. I kept thinking about responding, but what am I supposed to say to that? Thanks for beating the shit out of that dirty cop for me, I still don’t want you anywhere near my kid?
It’s insane. It’s unhinged.
And I feel better.
I know I shouldn’t. This sort of thing should make me sick and scared. But knowing that Angelo hurt that bastard makes me feel like some justice was served in this, even if there won’t be any real justice for the kills. Detective John deserved to get beaten, even beaten to death, and I want him to limp around and think about Angelo anytime he moves too fast or twists the wrong way or so much as bends over to tie his shoes.
I want him in agony, mostly because he nearly hurt me and nearly hurt my baby.
“What do you keep looking at on your phone?” Dad asks.
I quickly turn off the screen. “Nothing. Instagram.”
“Social media.” His lips curl. “Well, daughter, you’d better keep your phone away. The club looks down on that sort of behavior.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Dad drops the car at the valet, and we slowly walk in together. I don’t know why he’s bringing me tonight but when he said there was an important matter we needed to attend, I figured it was another discussion about my future. Dad likes to save the big stuff for fancy restaurants as a way to lull his victims into complacency, and I figure that’s what he’s doing with me. Take me to the Oak, wow me with its majesty, and get me to agree to some new demand.
And I have to admit, it might work.
The place is beautiful. Marble floors, shining wooden details, antique chandeliers worth millions, and the tree in the lobby: an enormous oak, an actual living plant with massive branches and a trunk at least ten feet around, probably more. It’s impossible, and it’s beautiful, and I’m staring around like a dumbstruck kid as Dad takes me into the restaurant.
“Now, Sara, I want you to have an open mind,” Dad says as the hostess guides us toward a private booth in the very back. “I understand this will be a surprise, but believe me, this is for the best.”
“I’m sorry, what are we doing here?” I frown at him, and my stomach suddenly feels like it’s made of lead. My mouth waters and my fingers tingle with nerves.