“Remember the guy from the bar the other night? The one who committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
Vanian shakes his head. “He didn’t. I found him on an app, made a date, went to his place, and sliced his wrists.”
I’m sure I look confused. “When did you do that?”
“You were sleeping. I was agitated. I didn’t like how he talked to you, and then he was being pretty aggressive with that other guy. I know his type. I’ve seen it a thousand times. His attitude proved me right.”
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I search for the appropriate reaction. I should be repulsed or scared or something, but instead… I kind of get it.
“That was sloppy of me. Normally, I watch an abuser for weeks or months before I make a move. I didn’t know he was a high-profile person, but fortunately, the fake suicide fits with his current situation, so the police closed the case. Then I found myself in a small town in Minnesota, planning to take out someone in broad daylight in a town where everybody notices everything. Thank fuck I came to my senses before I did something reckless.”
“You found him?”
Vanian nods. “It was easy. He’s a member of a prominent family in town.” He wrings his hands together. “So I let it go, but it’ll be on my mind for a long time. He got away with it, and that’s not okay with me.”
We sit in silence as several minutes pass. I have no idea what to say. I’m not nearly as freaked out as I should be. Is it because I know Van’s heart? Or is it because, in spite of what he’s telling me, his passion for helping kids, even in the extreme, is really fucking hot?
“Balt suspects something,” he says after a bit. “He stares at me like he’s trying to crack a code.”
“I noticed.”
“It’s not unfriendly, but it’s like he knows I’m hiding something.”
“Yeah. His past is a little mysterious too.”
Vanian nods. “I would never hurt you, or anyone innocent. You know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“And it’s not like I do things based on suspicions. It’s all vetted and proven. Even when they lie and get off somehow, the evidence was there.”
“I understand.”
“You must think I’m a monster. Maybe I am, but those victims, those kids, they need someone to protect them, and very often there’s no one to help. Their voices are silenced, their pain ignored. They sit in therapy sessions, crying, shaking, afraid of life, and it feels like the least I can do is slay their monsters for them.”
“It’s a lot to process. I’ve never met someone who…”
“That you know of.”
“True.”
“Are you disgusted with me?”
“No. I’m not sure what I feel, but it isn’t that.”
We both fall silent again until a new question bubbles up.
“What’s your long-term plan? Are you gonna keep doing this until you get old or caught or stop caring?”
“I haven’t considered a long-term plan. I guess I thought maybe eventually the urge would die down or the system would get better. It’s fucking frustrating, Nan. I spend so much time with these kids, trying to heal their wounds, but you can’t heal a wound like that. You can bandage it, maybe even put some stitches in, but it will affect them for the rest of their lives, in every single relationship—friends, romantic, authority, all of it. I can listen and I can care, but I can’t heal them. I can get them functioning again, but I can’t make it like it never happened. Most of them will have problems later in life. They’ll unknowingly seek out abusive relationships, or choose people who feel familiar, even when that’s bad. They might develop substance abuse problems or have trouble with intimacy. Some will persevere. They’ll go on to lead productive lives, and onthe outside they’ll look fine. But the wound is always there. It’s always fucking there.”
“I know.”
“I’m tired,” he admits. “Tired of pouring into the cracked vases only for them to be broken by the system. Do you know what happens when a child is abused by their foster parent?”
I nod. “Yes. They get removed from the home.”
