Cal ran his fingers through my hair, separating my curls. “No. When he got diagnosed with cancer and transitioned the company to me, I combed through every financial record for the past thirty years and found nothing remotely suspicious. I fired his entire leadership team and completely restructured, just to ensure there was no rot.”
“Did Bawdin…” I think better of finishing the thought. Cal hopefully never confirmed if he trafficked his sister. If he knows, I won’t reopen the wound by asking.
He thankfully ignores my misstep and keeps telling his story. “I hopped on the first flight to JFK, but by the time I got there, it was too late. Baldwin claims he found her face down in the dirt, beneath the balcony of their home on the Hudson River. The police wanted to rule it a suicide, but he greased the wheels and they labeled it an accidental death instead…”
“It wasn’t an accident.” I didn’t ask because deep in my heart, I know it wasn’t. I know the caliber of man my husband is. He would never commit to a course of action like this without solid proof.
“For years I tried to find evidence, but I wasn’t the man I am now. I didn’t have the resources or connections. Even though our fathers were friends, Baldwin and his crew hated me because I never acted like a privileged piece of shit like they did—I didn’t get off on frequenting strip clubs, fucking models, and treating the waitstaff like crap everywhere I went. I couldn’t infiltrate them and crack the walls they built around themselves. Eventually, I gave up because it was too hard to constantly give my hopes up, only to have them shattered.”
He sniffles, and I kiss his cheek, encouraging him to keep talking.
“When I started reading your books, I couldn’t help but think of Eloise. Reading about these dark vigilante characters who sought their own justice inspired me to hunt for proof again. And eventually, I exposed his business partners—DiMuzio and the Summerton brothers. One by one, I slaughtered them just like the villains in your books, an homage of sorts. Without your words, I’d never have the confidence to do this. I left their bodies in the open as a message to anyone else they involved.”
A deep sense of pride swells in my heart.I inspired my husband to become a real-life masked vigilante.My words gave him the confidence he needed to bring Eloise’s murderer to justice.
“So the man hanging on the hook is the second Summerton brother?” I switch my gaze to him, and see his fingers twitching.
“Yeah, it is. I’ve been torturing him for days, trying to extract more information from him. When you cut the head off a hydra, two grow in its place. I need to know who else is involved so I can eradicate the entire operation. I’m not done with this mission yet, baby”
I stare into Cal’s eyes, seeing the truth in their moss green depths. He needs to finish this, and even though he didn’t ask for it, I know he needs my blessing. How can I stay mad at him for avenging Eloise? I write about vigilantes who turn the tide of fate—who seek justice for those who cannot get it themselves. Deep down, even though my life wasn’t awful by any means, I felt wronged. I felt the unjust pain of being abandoned by a deadbeat sperm donor. I witnessed the struggles of a single mom who supported us on her own.
I wrote my characters for me—for people like me who needed a dark hero, even if it was a fictional one.
Wouldn’t I be a hypocrite if I didn’t help?
Standing up on slightly wobbly legs, I extend my hand, a peace offering. He takes it, hoisting himself up and holding onto me, as if he thinks I’ll leave if he doesn’t. His anticipation of my decision swirls around me like a physical caress as we stand in the dim light.
“Let’s get some answers.”
He smiles, his blood-soaked teeth and lip wound gleaming in the spotty lighting. My husband—the Christmas Cleaver—kisses my hand with a gentleness you’d never expect from a man who brutally ended three lives.
“Thank you, lightning bolt.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”
11
CAL
Itake the pipe leaning in the corner of the warehouse and hit Keller Summerton in the left kneecap. Bolton rips it out of my hand and before I can stop him, he swings it like a baseball bat into his right one. He howls, thrashing around like a fish on a line.
“What? I said I’m in,” Bolton quips. My ride or die baby, always ready to get to work.
“Are you sure? If you go down this road with me, you’re an accomplice. You’ll break the law, and your hands will be dirty.” I need him to understand the weight of his decisions.
“If we get caught, I’ll blame you and say you made me do it. I’m just an innocent young man who was enthralled by his much older, sinister husband,” he replies with enough sweetness that I’m not sure if he’s joking or not.
“You bastard,” Keller breathes, his voice sounding like sandpaper. “Fuck you both!”
“You couldn’t handle us, pervert,” Bolton snipes. “Tell me everything you know, or else I’m going to make you wish my husband had slit your throat days ago. Or he can drown you. He has options.”
There are quite a few deaths left to choose from in his backlist, but I’ll worry about that later. I’m interested in how Bolton will get answers out of him, especially because none of my methods worked. Keller spits at him, his saliva landing on the floor between them. A wicked laugh rips from deep within his belly, and I'm awestruck by how sexy evil Bolton is.
“Hunny, Ilikebeing spit on. Try again.” He lifts Keller’s blood soaked shirt, exposing his beer gut. He dips the pipe in a cold bucket of water before whacking it right into his stomach. The slapping sound rings through the warehouse, and Keller screams.
“Stop him!” he begs me.
“I’d never deprive my husband of his fun,” I drawl, leaning against the wall. May as well settle in for the show.
