Free enough to walk away from Lucifer forever.
Or free enough to walk back to him on my own damn feet.
“I won’t be providing couple’s therapy,” Barb quipped as all of my realizations painted a crooked smile on my face. “If you ask me, he’s way too forgiving of your childish bullshit. I’ve seen him damn thousands of Unwanted for less.“
I bit my lip against the blooming smile and, though she’d never admit it, I’m pretty sure I saw Barb’s expression soften too.
“Don’t hurt my boy,” she said seriously. Threateningly, even.
“I won’t,” I promised sincerely. “I’m gonna go get him a bundle of bloody roses and give it to him with Callen’s head on a candlestick.”
“I’m ready.”
The last forty years were spent in fear; fear of what my purpose would be after Callen was gone, or if I was even strong enough to face him again. What if I stood toe-to-toe with my murderer and he turned me back into the small, broken girl I’d been in life?
My fists clenched of their own volition as a blanket of serene purpose enveloped my resolve.
“You are worthy of choice,” I murmured to myself. “You are worthy of bloody, other-worldly revenge. And,” I shrugged as I stashed the last few favorites into my kill kit. “Lucifer is likely worthy of an apology.” I exhaled while patting my pockets and scanning the room, making sure I had all of the necessities. “Got my bag packed, my shoes tied tight. I think I’m ready.” My two frozen surprises I’d pulled from the freezer were already starting to sweat through my bag, so it was time to fuckinggo.
Jesus jumped up onto the entryway table, perched, and swished his tail with the most judgmental stare possible.
“Better not fuck it up,”I growled in my best Jesus the cat impression.
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, bud.”
I snagged the last Rice Christy treat off the counter, crammed it in my mouth, and set out the front door, only realizing I wasn’t alone after I tripped and fell down the first short flight of stairs.
Jesus hissed under foot and smacked my head.
“What in Moses’ name are you doing?” I screeched at the angry ball of stupidity. “I can’t take you to a crime scene. What kind of parent would that make me?” My vision was a little wonky as I stood, but it straightened out fast.
Unsurprisingly, Jesus didn’t answer.
“Fucks sake,” I sighed and threw my hands up. “Fine. You can go, but you’re walking. I will not be carrying your hefty ass.”
***
I knew that Callen wasn’t home before I slipped through the back door of his ridiculous house, just like I knew his wife would be tucked away in her silk gown before I covered her mouth and slit her throat.
“You knew,” I snarled above her choked gurgles, my hand still firmly in place as I stared into her eyes. “Filthy and weak.” I snagged the Bible off of her night stand with a bloody palm and tossed it onto her chest. “I look forward to seeing you in hell.”
Their perfectly curated house was immaculate. I went searching through each room, soaking in every detail about Callen’s life that I could find. So far, it had proven fruitless. Everything was as fake and put on display as he was.
Not that it was surprising. Sociopaths don’t have identities. They spend their lives as chameleons, systematically adapting to any situation or relationship that benefited their narcissistic ambitions.
Down the hall from the master bedroom, I opened a door to find the remnants of a boy’s bedroom. It was dressed with simple furniture and organized in such a tidy manner, like it’d been waiting all of this time for its owner to come home.
I stepped in, intrigued to think that their children still kept a bedroom. My previous research on the Whitcomb family revealed that they had exactly two children: Joe, the oldest, and Rose, the porcelain, angelic doll.
Three wall length shelves were stacked with what had to be at least 100 different trophies, metals, certificates of recognition, and numerous kinds of school awards.
Joe’s name was on each of them. Joseph, actually.
Much like Joe’s house, there was no dust to be found. Even on the trophies that had to have been sitting there for at least fifteen years or more.
My smile dipped with a touch of sadness as I walked over to the vanity and found a collage of photos lining the mirror. Joe’s handsome face was featured in all of them, surrounded by groups of laughing friends, his arm hanging off the shoulders of beautiful girls, and the innocence of youth still written in the lines of his face.
Then, the photo in the only picture frame sitting on the desk caught my eye. Sickness accompanied my sneer as a haunted looking Damien stared back at me. His skin was as dull as his eyes, and he looked at least ten years older than would have been.
