Don’t speak.
What’s the point of wearing a mask and covering every inch of skin in clothes if your voice is going to give you away?
Especially now, with three fucking witnesses.
I could turn the gun to Liam and kill him right now. But I won’t, because I’m aware that my fuck-up far outweighs his.
Meanwhile, Jones’ wife has dropped to the floor. Her first thought, faced with what she probably believes is impending death for them all, is for her kid. She hugs the little girl to her, doing her best to shield her from the weapon I’m holding in my hand.
Jones, on the other hand, has inched back to the wall, not even giving his family another look, exactly like the fucking coward he is. He stares at the gun, which I haven’t even cocked at anyone yet, absolute terror etched in the lines of his face, and a disgusting smell fills the room. He’s just pissed himself.
No, shat himself.
Repulsive.
If I hadn’t been about to kill him, his lack of bowel control would have done it. I train my gun to his shaking, cowardly face.
“Please, don’t kill her. Don’t hurt her,” sobs out the woman, and inexplicably, I find myself wishing I could break rule number two myself just to reassure her.
Don’t worry. I’m not a monster.
Well, notthatkind of monster.
I may be a psychopath, but I’d never kill an animal or a kid. I don’t know what that says about me. Most serial killers start by torturing tiny, helpless creatures, but I guess I skipped a few steps and went straight to killing adults.
Unless you count torturing the insect. I definitely did that.
But I also beat the shit out of anyone who so much as existed alittle too closely in her general vicinity, and when she started to date in college, I turned to killing.
No one fucking dates her.
Now, as I aim my gun at Jones’ head, I realize all the risk I’m taking is because of her.
Because he was mentioned in the same sentence as her last name.
What kind of a psychopath am I?
Where’s the limit to my murderous obsession? I can’t fucking kill the whole world because she lives in it, can I?
Maybe I can.
“Please,” blubbers Jones, finding his voice after his initial shock—and subsequent shit. “Please. I played by the rules. Please. Please, don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything. Whatever your contract’s worth, I’ll double it. Please.” He’s crying, embarrassing, pathetic tears running down his face. “Please. The second I realized it was a Devil killing, I covered it up. I even called her and said her parents had died in a murder-suicide, or a suicide pact. I’m sure she believed it. Please. I called Piper Day and–”
I pull the trigger and his head explodes before he can say another word.
Then I pull it again, and again, and again, riddling his body with every bullet in my gun as his wife and kid scream.
I get the feeling that’s going to leave some trauma.
He should have thought twice about allowingmyinsect’s name on his tongue.
16
Quill
Present Day
“What the fuck, man? What the fuck?”
