“I’m here, Jacob.” I stroke his choppy brown hair. “I’ve got you.”
I’ll always have your back, baby bro.
I’m careful with Jacob’s damaged body as I bring him in closer. Snuggle him tighter, so he knows he’s safe. Tomorrow, I’ll take him to Urgent Care. There, the staff will fill out their meaningless paperwork. Call it into Protective Services. Those worthless assholes will visit our house, as they do, and fill out their bullshit report.
As always, nothing will change.
But tonight, I can’t worry about tomorrow because I’m too damn tired. I need to try to sleep because Jacob and I need to be out of here before Faith’s parents wake up for work. They’re good people, but last time they tried to help us, my mother burned down their garage for ‘meddling in her business.’
“Caleb?” Faith whispers from the recliner near the window where she’s tucked herself in for the night.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re my best friend.”
I want to smile at her admission, but I can’t. It’s like something in me broke, and my face can’t make the expression anymore. “Same.” I feel as if a hundred days happened in only a handful of hours. “Thanks for giving us your bed.”
“Anytime, dude.”
This isn’t the first time Jacob and I crashed at Faith’s, but I hope, with Emmett gone, it’s the last. Because after tonight, I swear on everything I am, no one will ever hurt us again. No one is going to hurt anyone I care about.
It’s a bold promise for a twelve-year-old, but I swear it on my life.
1
HAVOC
Thirteen Years Later
Mayhem, Pennsylvania
“You’re one dumb sonofabitch.” I pace the pigsty of a room, using the toes of my black Harley Davidson boots to cut a path through dirty clothes and empty food containers that litter the floor.
See? This is the reason I hate chasing people. It’s always a hassle. And in this case, I’ll be lucky if I don’t leave with fucking fleas. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out it was you?”
Casper, zip-tied like a worm on his belly on the raggedy living room carpet, frantically shakes his head. He watches me, his blue eyes wide, watery, and full of fear. Good. Dumb and drooling bastard better be afraid after the bullshit he pulled.
He squirms against the binds, mumbling something—a pathetic excuse, no doubt—behind the gag I shoved in his mouth. As if I give a shit what he has to say.
A corpse has no voice. And this guy is most certainly dead.
I just haven’t put him in the dirt.
Yet.
It’s fun to play with prey. Not in the mischievous way Jester does it, though. When my best friend tortures people, he’s more of a one-man comedy act. I’m more methodical. I like to savor the act of hurting people, especially if the person did me dirty.
This asshole here? He done went and fucked up.
Bad.
To add insult to injury, he had the audacity to also think he could get away with not only his crime but also thinking he could make me look like a fool.
I cease my pacing on the disgusting brown carpet, with its cigarette burns and stains from God only knows what, and flip the knife gripped in my right hand. I catch it deftly by its hilt, a trick I perfected as a kid. When I point the blade at Casper, he legit looks ready to shit himself.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I begin. “I’m going to kill you.” My words are calm, conversational even. The disgraced Berserker relaxes for a beat, probably thinking I’m letting him off easily. Until I continue. “But not before I cut off each one of your sticky fucking fingers.”
Casper is shaking violently at my threat (a promise, actually) as he tries to slither away. Although how far he thinks he can get, I do not know. He doesn’t get far, not with his wrists and ankles tied. Tears river down his face. He stares at me through the greasy ropes of his brown hair. Christ, his body is as gross as his apartment. He reeks of Cheetos marinated in sour milk. And of course, he’s wearing classic heroin-chic—crusty blue jeans, tattered hoodie, and filthy sneakers. Looks like he picked at most of the open sores on his gaunt face.
