Maybe I can’t get her back. But at least, I can make them pay.
Thomas Connor is dead. I saw to it myself that Ben Duncan died a slow, painful death. That leaves Alfie Jones.
“Address?” I ask.
Vincent hands me a card on which is scrawled a location in the worst neighborhood of Oakley.
“It was pretty easy to find,” he says hesitatingly. Then he adds hurriedly, “He’s a registered sex offender.”
Well, fuck.
Guess I don’t have to wonder anymore why she didn’t return to him.
-
I’ve been leaning on the buzzer for a while when the door finally opens.
Good. I’d been about two steps away from kicking it in.
I look at the piece of shit who was responsible for fucking up a part of my sweet girl’s life.
Beady eyes, scrubby beard, a breath that stinks of alcohol and cigarettes, an old t-shirt with holes and two big damp spots under his arms, and paint-stained overalls, though I highly doubt he’s done any painting in a while.
“Yeah?” he asks guardedly.
“Alfie Jones, I presume? I’m Damien Wells. Nice to meet you.”
He eyes my lifted hand in distrust. And he’s right to be wary. When a Devil shows up, in person to some shitty Oakley dwelling, you know you’re fucked.
“May I come in?” I ask with a pretense of politeness, and push past him before he’s had time to reply.
I take in my surroundings at a glance. The house that my girl spent one month in. A small living room with a sagging couch facing a television. A threadbare carpet with a few suspicious stains. At the back, visible through a cracked door, a tiny kitchen with piles of dirty dishes. There’s a third door that opens onto an unmade bed with brown sheets.
“You’re Seraphina Connor’s stepfather,” I tell him.
“In a manner of speaking, yeah,” he mumbles.
“What manner of speaking?” I question sharply.
He runs a tongue slowly over his cracked lips.
“We’re not related by blood or by marriage, if you catch my drift,” he smirks.
Idocatch his drift. And he’s a dead man. But I’m going to make him suffer before he goes.
Not yet, though.
I’ve just spotted a small box behind the TV, gathering dust. It’s got a pink flower pattern, and it looks out of place in this dumpy house.
“That hers?” I ask, gesturing toward it.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Some old keepsakes, or whatever. Never got around to chucking it.”
I head toward it, my heart pounding, and when I open it, a cloud of dust rises.
Inside is a pile of old photos. I flip through them, drinking her in throughout the years. Sitting on a swing, standing in a tiny backyard, always sitting, or standing, staring quietly at the camera with her deep violet eyes. Never playing, never smiling. There are pictures of her mother, too, and she looks a lot like her, except that her face is deeply lined, her eyes sunken in.
Then I come to another set of pictures. Reflections dancing on a small body of water, half-shielded by the shadows of over-hanging tree branches. There are dozens of pictures of that same body of water, as though she’s fascinated by this play of light and darkness.
