One word from my Prayer had nearly brought me to my knees.
I cut the engine three streets over and walk the rest, hands in my pockets, shoulders loose even with the weight of my kit in my rucksack.Just another lad out for a walk at night, nothing to see.The moon’s a thin grin in the sky, same as mine.
This part of Wichita is all bland American beige—identikit gaffs with porches and flags and wheelie bins dragged to the curb.The kind of neighborhood where folk mind their business till the sirens come, then suddenly everyone’s a witness.
There it is,Devlin, the short, forgettable name on the mailbox.The same name the bruised lass with Band-Aids hiding in her sleeves whispered to Sera.Boring name, dangerous man.That’s always the way, innit?Monsters dinnae announce themselves with horns and pitchforks.They smile at ye and pull on the charm before they take a sledgehammer to your soul.
I sink into the darkness and let the house tell me its story.Which rooms breathe, which windows sweat, which floors have the most shadows, the timings between passing motors.A stray cat patrols the hedge next to the house and pisses on it like it owns the world.
When it buggers off, I creep closer.The telly mutters upstairs through an open window—some sitcom with a laugh track.I count the gaps between canned giggles, the rhythm of the audience that’s nae there.
When I move toward the back of the house, it’s ghost-smooth, over the fence soft as silk, through the garden nae a crunch.The grass is patchy and half dead.A fallen tree snuggles up to a rusted barbecue near the door.The back light’s out, so this Devlin fellow’s careless.They always are till the bang.
A jiggle here and a jiggle there, and the back door gives a wee sigh when it opens.
Inside smells of stale smoke and something that tries too hard to pretend it’s lemon scented.The mail is stacked on the table next to aWe Will Save You!church raffle flyer.I stop to memorize the date, time, and location because I cannae deny my love of raffles.Maybe I’ll swing by, drop a tenner, see what kind of folk think this bastard’s worth saving.
I breathe the air slowly, measure it.Then I lay out the lie we need the world to swallow.
We didn’t talk about where to put Farley’s hand, so I look around for a bit.Not the freezer—too obvious.Somewhere that will sing the hymn we want at exactly the verse we choose.
Finally, I find the perfect spot.There’s a mostly empty toolbox in the garage, shoved under a workbench covered in dust.The kind of place a man in a hurry might think was clever.The kind of place detectives love to “discover” when they’re already suspicious, which they will be soon enough.
I work quick and clean, fixing the sealed parcel just so.The scene settles like it’s always been here, like gravity pulled it into place.
Next, a whisper of the story, other ghosts you cannae see unless ye ken how to look.A receipt tucked under another on the table for a place Farley used to drink.It’s my receipt, paid in cash, but no one needs to ken that.Farley’s blood all over the shirt I wore when I took his hand from him, now in Devlin’s washing bin.
I only have it by some mad stroke of luck, found in a burn bag I forgot to burn.
Now the police will see exactly what we want them to see.A man who panicked.A man who tried to hide something.A man with secrets.
Upstairs, the telly keeps laughing.I picture him with nae a care in the world, his socks on, remote in hand, other hand down his pants, wife or girlfriend passed out next to him with scars on her heart deeper than the ones on her body.
The monster rattles its cage, wanting up the stairs, wanting to make him understand what it feels like to be small and afraid.
Not tonight.
My jaw aches.I swallow down the noise in me and make the room teach me calm again.
On the mantel in the living room, I find a family photo.The couple in their Sunday best, his grin too wide and a hand on a shoulder that reads like ownership.The kind of picture that used to live on fridges in my past, right before the shouting started.My da had that same smile.That same grip.
Something in me bares its teeth.
“Think you’re bit of a saint, aye?”I murmur to the glass.“Saint Scrote is all ye are.”
I want to smash it.Want to grind the glass into his gums and ask him how holy he feels.But that’s the old hymn.I only touch the wood frame with the faintest pass of a gloved thumb, a nothing mark, a whisper.Control, not carnage.
I do one last orbit of the house, the way ye pat your pockets before leaving a pub.Phone, keys, wallet.Evidence, story, exit.
Then the house gives me back to the night without a fuss.
The dark folds around me like it was waiting, but I don’t pull breath proper till I’m a street away and some late train moans across the rails nearby.The monster in me thumps its head against bone, bored and starving for a punch, a kill, or a fuck.
Not tonight, pal.We’re gentlemen this evening.
I slip into the van, shut the world out, and the gloves, mask, and booties go into the burn bag.Everything in its place, everything accounted for.I use hand sanitizer even though there’s nothing on my hands, rubbing them together till my skin squeaks.Superstition’s just risk assessment, aye?Just good sense dressed up in ritual.
Then I open my laptop, and my wee stolen windows on the Gas N’ Go hum to life.Three feeds total on the petrol station.One wide on the car park, where a stranger sits in his car, a lad hired by the detective to keep watch over our Prayer.I clocked him earlier, logged his cigarette breaks, the way he tilts his head when he’s bored.He’s nae a threat.Just another pair of eyes to protect her.
