It wasn’t an instant death. Far from it. It was long, horrifically painful. Yanking an arm out of its shoulder socket isn’t easy, but after a dozen tries, the white, fluffy snow beneath our feet turned crimson.
We’re all considered psychopaths.
I’ve been called that and many different names countless times in my career as a part of Carter’s inner circle. Koby, me, even Carter—we’ve all heardpsychothrown in our general direction more than once in our lives.
While there have been moments I’ve thought the name definitely fits me, I’m nothing in comparison to Broadway. He takes the fucking psycho crown. I wouldn’t think of using dogs for a kill if I had ten years to come up with the idea, I swear.
Shaking off the memory, I set up the video clip from a surveillance camera outside a nightclub in New York.
It’s proof-of-unimportance, as Broadway calls it. A proof for Carter that Violet’s rapist, a man destined for death, isn’t someone Broadway can’t murder.
At this point, I doubt Carter would refuse a kill even if Broadway wanted to annihilate someone important. There are a few exceptions, like Dante Carrow and his men, but anyone else would be fair game, I think. Carter’s growing exponentially more worried about Broadway’s mental state the more brutal and elaborate the torture/kill sessions get.
We all hope that once everyone who rented Violet from Noretto has bitten the dust, Broadway will find his wits again.
Hebetter.He has a baby on the way. He needs to tame the grizzly bear inside him and fast.
I get more comfortable on the sofa as the song soundtracking Broadway and Violet’s fuck-fest changes to “TipToe” by PatrickReza.
Looks like I scared Violet’s orgasm away when I barged in here—invited,by the way—and now Broadway’s starting the time-consuming task of summoning her high from the top.
Sometimes, though it happens rarely for me, female orgasms are the most annoying things known to mankind. I remember the few times I had a girl on the verge of falling apart, only for her orgasm to play peek-a-boo with me because she heard a sound that took her out of the moment, or I changed the pace oh-so softly.
Another three minutes of my fingers tapping the couch go by and still no sign of Broadway. I lean over my laptop indulging in the ritual I adopted two months ago: checking hospital databases and police reports for any sign of Hailey’s half-sister and deadbeat father.
That’s task number one on the long list I tick off every day trying to locate Charles Vaughn and Bianca Annabelle Davis.
So far, no luck.
Wherever they’re hiding, they’re doing a great fucking job. I’ve hacked into the surveillance systems of almost all the larger cities in America. Vaughn’s number plates are running non-stop through the system. Face-recognition software is scouring millions of cameras around the clock, waiting for a hit, but the United States is a hell of a big place.
I’m basically looking for a needle in a haystack. A needle accompanied by an ex, but—unfortunately—great, cop.
Hailey told me where Vaughn hid her and her mother over the years when things were getting too heated at his job. Every spot is under surveillance, including Hailey’s grandparents in Idaho.
So far,nothing. It’s like they fell off the face of the earth.
And I’m the one tasked with finding them, which means spending more hours in front of my laptop than ever before.
I love the job, but after two months of staring at the screen almost non-stop, of staring at a picture ofherin the top left corner of the screen, I’m fucking tired.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s not unpleasant to look at. Quite the opposite, actually. I know every feature of her face by heart. I know how many freckles pepper her cheeks, how many dark specks are in her honey-colored eyes, and the precise angle of her full lips curling into a smile.
Though there are less than a handful of pictures where Bianca’s smiling. Her facial expressions have slightly more range than a teaspoon.
Anyway, looking at her is the highlight of this entire endeavor. My inner stalker has been growing more attached to her day by day. More attached and more bold in how it summons inappropriate fantasies. I’ve imagined Bianca naked, panting, moaning more times that I’d have the courage to admit.
Still, I’mtiredof staring at the screen non-stop.
I haven’t had time for a night of drinking, getting laid, or even a good night’s sleep because Hailey’s agitated and impatient, which in turn means Carter’s acting out.
The man is a tantrum-throwing child when his girl is upset.
And judging by my Bianca obsession, getting laid needs to be on my agenda, some girl to help me fuck her out of my system. The last thing I need is Hailey chewing my head off because I’m too attached to her sister.
Another three songs end before the music dies down and the bedroom door at the end of the hallway swings open with awhoosh. I don’t have to look to know that’s Broadway.
Not only do I know his rhythmical footsteps off by heart, but I know Violet won’t show her face until I leave. She’ll avoid me for the next few days until her embarrassment dies down.
