Satan, if you’re listening, I’m ready to come home now.
I reluctantly peel myself off my bed, padding through to the bathroom for a shower and to embrace the day. I let the heat of the water seep deep into my bones, washing away the last remaining layer of my double life.
It can sometimes take days for me to switch completely off. It’s strange being a vigilante killer.
I don’t enforce the law; I’m righting a wrong.
Wouldn’t say I’m even a serial killer—don’t get the itch when it’s been a while.
I simply sleep a little easier knowing I’ve provided someone with a chance Regina and I were never offered. One we would have grabbed with both hands during those early days.
I crave the peace it will eventually give me when it’s our turn.
I’m able to disassociate from myjoband reality. But it’s the latter that got me in this work in the first place.
There are people who walk freely in the streets, with more power than one human should be allowed to wield, when their hands are filthy with crimes against the innocent.
Who thinkthey’reabove the law, and they heart-wrenchingly are.
I’m not sure what kind of sacrifice some of them made, but it granted them immunity somehow.
It’s something rooted in the secret society of the Sumus members.
The two individuals responsible for our way of life might have dipped beneath our radar the last couple months, but we sure as hell make sure there’s fewer like them in this state.
We’re just waiting for the moment their heads rise above the sand again.
And they will. They thrive flexing their power in the public eye.
We watched them walk free as if nothing ever happened.
Once I’m fully kitted as if I’m ready for a weekend in the French Alps, I find Regina outside. She’s already begun assembling the base of her creation. Her hair peeks out against her white coat, wisps of it blowing free beneath her beanie hat.
The urge to throw a snowball is so tempting, and I lean down and take advantage of her distraction.
“Don’t even think about it,” she calls behind her.
I swear, the girl either has eyes on the back of her head, or she’s got the same sixth sense I’ve adapted.
My laugh follows me into the backyard. “Your little pompom was swaying about, screaming for me to hit it like a bullseye.”
I lean down to gather snow in my hands, and her green eyes narrow on me.
“I’d shove this down your pants quicker than you could say Hail Mary.”
The moment serves me well. I shove the snow in her face, cackling as I make a run for it.
“You’re fucking dead, Indie Kent!” she splutters, spitting out snow as she aggressively forms snowballs in her pink-gloved hands.
After twenty minutes chasing each other like a pair of school kids—the entire backyard no longer coated with white—we call it quits.
I’m shamefully breathless by the time we reach the porch, kicking my boots against the back door.
“You think the neighbours will no longer be suspicious of our late-night activities? Maybe just think we’re a pair of overgrown kids?” I ask her, watching her dust the flakes off herself.
“Speaking of which. Old Billy asked me where the hell we snuck off to the other night.”
I freeze, searching her eyes, but they’re full of amusement.
