Needless to say, I’m regretting my momentary infusion of morals.
Like I said, I’m a walking red flag and never claimed to be otherwise, but no matter my faults, I have and will never hurt innocent people. Least of all someone like Berkleigh.
Okay, least of all…Berkleigh.If I had a weakness, it would be her. That’s why Ihateher. Among other reasons.
Activating the facial recognition app, I sit back and watch the program do its thing. Tens of faces flash across my screen, one after the other, testing the theory of who this goon is. He was the passenger up front and my gut tells me he’s a henchman, just like the driver.
The one calling the shots has to be the back passenger. They’re all wearing suits like they’re going out to a fancy dinner. The guy from the back seat looks around, but never straight at me, before making his way to Berkleigh’s front porch.
I keep staring at him though, as the program continues searching for the other guy, the one in the front passenger seat. With three quarters of his face toward the camera, I should have enough factors to identify him. The whole thing is like a mathematical formula calculating the distance of key points and creating a faceprint that is unique to us all. The technology is fucking amazing but isn’t always viable, which is why the plate would have been a great back-up.
“Gotcha!” The rectangle surrounding the guy’s picture turns green and his name and address appear just beneath it.
Gerald Raines. Originally from Albany, he moved to Lennox, about twenty miles from Blue Hills Grove, five years ago. He is bald now, but on his recently issued driver’s license, he’s got a full head of hair. Either he shaved it or he wore a toupée, maybe a wig. No way someone loses that much, that fast. Cancer could be a reason, too, but I’m not going to look at his medical history just yet.
I stop typing when I hear a floorboard creak under the weight of a step. Quick and stealthy, I’m up from my desk and closing my office door behind me within seconds. When I walk back toward my bedroom where I set Berkleigh up a few hours ago, I freeze as we come face to face.
My jaw clenches and my fists turn into balls of contracted steel. How is it possible that she looks worse than before?
I’m going to fucking enjoy killing all three of those fuckers.
“I was thirsty.” Berkleigh speaks while my mind is derailing with images of torture and extreme pain, answering a question I didn’t even think to ask.
“You shouldn’t be walking.” Her ankle was swollen, probably a sprain that’ll resolve itself if she keeps the pressure off of it. My eyes are so busy checking out the state of her injury that my brain short circuits a little when my gaze lifts up and finds she’s wearing one of my sweatshirts.
Again, I don’t speak because I’m afraid to say something that non-psychotic people wouldn’t dare.
“Sorry, I was cold.” When her voice cracks just a little on the last word, it does something to me. I can’t explain it, but it feels like a weakness. A distant memory.
Without thinking and acting solely on instinct, I pick her up and carry her like a bride across the threshold all the way down to the kitchen. Once her ass is settled on the table, I turn to the cupboards and take out a glass.
“Ice?” I ask, not sure if she can stomach room temperature tap water.
When she doesn’t answer, I turn back to her and notice the tear that crashes onto her bare knee.
Motherfucker. When I catch these assholes, they will pay in stab wounds for every tear she sheds.
“Hey. You’re safe, all right?” She nods but doesn’t raise her head, just holds on to the edge of the table like she’s gripping on to a life line.
I don’t like it. That table won’t do shit for her, but I will.
Fuck my life. Am I jealous of a fucking piece of furniture?
“I know. I just…I tried to fight back, Tanner. I really, really did.” She looks up then, begging me with watery eyes to believe her. But I don’t need her to convince me. I’ve known her my whole fucking life. No fucking way she went down without a fight.
“Sweet Bee,” I place my index finger under her chin and zero in on her eyes. I hate that they’re empty of her fire, watered down with pain and unbearable memories. They’ll pay for that, too. “It never even crossed my mind that you didn’t get a few good hits in. But even if you hadn’t, it doesn’t matter. The only guilty fuckers here are the ones who hurt you.”
My voice is low, dead calm. I’m trying to reassure her while keeping myself grounded and even keeled.
“Did I tell you there were three of them?” Fuck, she sounds like a little girl with her barely audible whispers.
Last night, she didn’t give me any specifics. More important things needed my attention. But I’m not telling her that I’ve spent the last two hours going through tapes looking for these fuckers. So, I lie.
“Yeah, you did. Just before you went to sleep.” It’s scary how easy it is for me to lie and make sure I sound one hundred percent sincere. To be fair, I never bother lying because other people’s feelings aren’t my concern, but I can’t risk Berkleigh seeing my set-up and asking questions about shit that’ll make her brain implode.
“My house is a mess. I should call the cops. Maybe go to the hospital for a…a…” More tears track down her face, her words—or difficulty to actually form them—confirming what I’d hoped wasn’t the case. If I think too hard about the fact that one, or God forbid, all three of those motherfuckers raped her, I will burn every fucking house down within a fifty mile radius until I find them.
In a normal world, she should absolutely go to the station, file a complaint, and wait for the process to work.
