He slid me my glass. “Since you got us into this lovely situation, why don’t you go first? Who was the guy in the rug?”
There was no use hiding anything now, so I’d tell him the necessities and move on.
“My ex-husband,” I said, and he arched a brow in interest at that little tidbit of information.
“Did you kill him?”
“Yes, but he tried to kill me first.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Why doesn’t any woman when they’re in a dangerous situation? Most women don’t make it out of abusive situations alive, and I didn’t want to take that risk, so I took care of the problem.”
I took down my drink in one swig to focus on the burn going down my throat rather than the one building behind my eyes. Gosh, how had my life gotten so fucked up? When I glanced over, I saw nothing but brimming understanding in Lachlan’s gaze.
“I’m sorry, Logan.”
“It’s fine. I just want this nightmare to be over. So now, tell me your story. Who did that severed arm belong to?”
“A man I killed.” He stated it simply, like it was just another Tuesday. My eyes widened.
“You wanna add anything else to that, orrr should I start running for my life now?” I asked, and he chuckled beforestaring off, contemplating what I assumed was what all he wanted to tell me.
“You want the truth?” he asked, and I nodded. “Fuck it. It’s not like there’s anything to hide between us if we really are doing this.” He took a deep breath. “It started with one woman, about seven years ago. She came to the nursery, her eyes lifeless and dull, and her husband picked out a spruce and called her names while she stood there. He treated her like shit the entire time they were on my farm. Eventually, he raised a hand to her and I stopped him before he hit her. No one else did anything. I stepped in and talked to her while he was in the bathroom. She wanted me to help her because no one else would. Itook care of himand word spread. Humans talk, always have. Especially women when they see a way out of a shitty situation. I didn’t plan on making it a habit, but over time more people kept asking around about it.
“Then it kind of evolved from there. Women who’ve been beaten, threatened . . . they come to me because they’ve already tried everything else. They ‘book a cabin’ on the outskirts of my property under some mundane pretext—a weekend away, a ‘repair the marriage’ trip. They get their partner out here and I take care of the rest.” He shrugged before continuing.
“I don’t force anyone. People come to me and I vet them. I ask questions until I’m sure it isn’t just anger talking. If a woman says she wants this, then—” He paused and watched my face, like he wanted to see if I would recoil from him. “I help the problem stop existing.”
He said the last part the way a contractor might say, “I’ll fix your roof.” It was both monstrous and attractive as hell. This whole fucked-up experience had me learning all kinds of things about myself apparently. And honestly, how was what I did any different?
“You said other people know about it,” I started. “A network?”
“Neighbors. Friends of friends. A frightened counselor. It spreads because the world is full of women who need help and full of institutions and officers that shrug and ignore them.” He tapped a nervous rhythm against his knee. Knowing I was probably the first person that knew about his little system other than his clients did something to my insides. My chest tightened in protest, and something else more complicated fluttered like a moth against a lampshade. He was terrifying and so absurdly competent that part of me could feel the pull. It was disturbingly reassuring.Did the man have to be hot and a hero?
“How do you and the women escape the authorities after?”
“Small things,” he answered. “A couple of transactions closer to home that look normal, acquaintances who remember seeing them at a coffee shop, a rented canoe that goes unreturned. Eventually, law enforcement will classify them as runaways or a missing persons cold case. People stop looking when there’s no fresh smoke. That’s the whole point.” He folded his hands on the table. The corded muscles of his forearms caught my eye, but I quickly looked to him again.
“The men I took care of were cruel,” he said plainly. “And some were exactly the kind of terrible you only notice in hindsight. I only respond to requests from people who’ve tried every legal avenue and found them wanting. I’m the option outside the system. I won’t pretend it’s anything noble.” He searched my face again, as if gauging whether I thought him a monster or a necessary evil.
I wanted tell him to stop being both homicidal and, alarmingly, sexy as hell.
“And by taking care of them, you mean you become an axe murderer in the woods?”
“More or less, yeah.”
“What the hell is this, Camp Crystal Lake?” I chuckled, trying to digest everything he’d just told me. Lachlan took down hisdrink before nodding to me, silently asking if I wanted another, but I needed to head back, I hadn’t brought Tony because, well, the woman showing up that had knocked his lights out but also the dog that had probably taken a chunk from this man’s ass cheek wouldn’t have been the strongesthey, let’s work togethermove.
“No, I gotta get back to Tony, but if the cops show up, you know what to say now.” I get up from the table, leaving my business card on the bar for him so he’ll have my number, and head back to the door. He kept up with me, but the limp and the bump on his head only seemed larger. I knew he had to be in pain, but he opened the door for me anyway.
“Hey, and um, I’m sorry about your head and, uh, your ass. I was just scared and I mean, if you need anything, I don’t live far—”
“Got it, bonnie. I’ll see you around.” He gave me a small grin that made my insides melt.
“Riiight.”
I walked out of his house and toward my Ford, but I never heard his door click closed behind me. I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to look back as I got into my truck and headed back home.
