The elitist, self-righteous prick. “Is that so?”
He drew a deep breath, as if fighting to keep calm. “It’s no longer a request. When Darcy arrives, you’ll go up to your room. You will not be going anywhere. Do I make myself clear?”
“You hypocritical son of a bitch. You want to keep me out of your world and protect me? Then why didn’t you just drive me straight home, why did you have to go after those men? You could have called Matt and had them arrested. You could have let them live. You never gave one second of thought last night about showing me your world. So don’t you dare sit there and tell me you only want to protect me.” I was on my feet, I hadn’t even realized I had stood. “Don’t you dare.”
“I killed those men to protect you,” he roared and stood up. “And I would do it again, and again, and again.”
“Why Karson? Why protect me? Why save me? Why not just let me go and sort out my own shit? It doesn’t involve you. If I die, so fucking what?” I flicked out my arms. Like a broken record stuck on repeat we were back, with me desperately seeking three words he didn’t feel.
“Stop it,” he snarled. “I cannot give you the answer you want to hear.”
I retreated. Anger cooled into a bitter acceptance. “Then do me a favor and just stay away from me.”
Emotions sped over his face, anger, defiance, and what looked like guilt, but the last look was full of malice. “If I’d stayed away last night, you would be dead.” He strode from the room and slammed the front door.
“If you wanted the pictures relocated, Karson. You only had to ask,” Ethan called out.
“Oh right,” I muttered, “because I couldn’t possibly take care of myself.”
I grabbed a glass off the side table and poured a full whisky. I shot it down my throat in three big gulps. Its burn didn’t offer relief, not yet anyway. I poured another drink.
Ethan came over and took the glass from my hands.
“You want to fight, and you might be capable of it physically, but emotionally, be realistic, Amy.” He sat the glass back on the table. “I know he hides it well, but what he did last night, he feels bad about it.”
“Bad for doing it, or bad because I saw it?” I asked.
By giving me no answer, I had my answer.
Chapter 79
Justice
Matt knocked on the door mid-morning. He held the appearance of a man who hadn’t had much sleep, if any. Dark circles lined his eyes, stubble raided his chin, and his shoulders sagged. He carried a folder in one hand, coffee in the other. His eyebrows pulled together sharply when he saw me; causing a long, thin line to crease the middle of his forehead. I was grateful when he made no comment.
“What did you find out?” Ethan asked.
He removed his hat and settled himself down in the armchair. The folder perched on his lap. His face was solemn.
“The men were once part of a motorcycle gang. They call themselves the Bone Crushers.” He took a sip of coffee and screwed up his face.
Ethan huffed a laugh. “Not exactly ambiguous. Must have taken them hours to come up with that name.”
“A group of them went out on their own. They do all kinds of jobs for cash. Their usual gigs involve collecting drug money owed by junkies. They use whatever means necessary to get what’s owed, always adding a little more to the balance for their own pockets. Torture is their favourite method. They’ve been known to use oxy torches, nail pulling, the usual sick, disgustingmethods.” He leaned forward and placed the folder on the coffee table. Ethan picked it up. I went over to look. There was an image of a stick-thin man with bad skin. His eyes were black and swollen near shut. His cheek caved in unnaturally. His front teeth were missing. Ethan flicked to the next picture. Burn marks ran across his back. There were five in total. A mangled mess of red and yellow gooey puss seeped from the raw flesh.
I felt sick.
Matt straightened himself up and ran a hand through his hair. “They also do other things, like security for events. They’ve been known to rough up wives or partners going through messy divorces as persuasion, that kind of thing. The odd person unable to pay has turned up dead.”
“If the police know all this why aren’t they in jail?” I asked, gobsmacked.
Matt’s demeanour changed from informative to bitter.
“Because the sons of bitches are so ruthless the victims are too scared to press charges. The few who try to disappear before they can testify, or have a sudden change of heart. They’re not beneath raping wives, or daughters. One little girl they raped was only thirteen. They do whatever they need to, to make sure charges don’t happen.”
For a moment we were all still and speechless. My stomach twisted inside itself. Ethan’s face was tight. He flicked to the next image. There was an attractive brunette woman, maybe mid-twenties I guessed, laying spread-legged on the ground. She was egg-white pale. One eye was swamped by a large bruise, while another streaked her cheek. Her eyes were fixed, like an opaque blind had been pulled down. Bruise marks stretched across her neck, she was naked from the waist down. She’d been raped and then strangled with her own pantyhose.
I moved away and sat on the couch, my breath hot in my chest. I wondered what might’ve happened to me if they’dmanaged to get me in the van. A shudder rolled over my body. They were cruel, ruthless bastards. I’d felt appalled with Karson for slaughtering them. Now, I wasn’t sure what to think.
