Page 52 of Guilty as Sin

“He’s in a talking mood,” my brother says.

The dozing man jerks awake in his chair.

“Whatever you want to know,” he says.

I sneer at the man who attacked my wife. He’s in the middle of the concrete room, tied to a wooden chair that’s set above the drain. He’s down to his underwear. Black bruises oozing with cuts cover his body, but his shaved head looks untouched. His fingers all end in bloody messes, the fingernails missing.

Finn’s work.

My younger brother must’ve been the one to work him over. The skinhead tried to kill him too, after all.

As I circle around the prisoner, I see a large injury to the back of his head. The result of blunt force. I point it out to Liam.

“Did Finn get carried away?” I ask. Everything above the fucker’s neck should’ve been mine to deal with.

“That was your wife,” Liam says. He hands me a stubby, weighted club. “She got him with his own weapon.”

My chest fills with pride as I consider the heavy club in my hands.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Liam closes the door behind him.

“Speak,” I tell the prisoner.

He lifts his head. But he doesn’t dare look me in the eye.

“Seven hired me to attack Cora O’Sullivan,” he says all at once.

I bristle at the sound of my wife’s name coming from this fuck’s mouth. He stumbles through the rest of his explanation.

“I was supposed to wait outside her building, then get her over the head and drag her to the nearest alley. Then I was supposed to—to hurt her and leave her there,” he stammers.

My face is blinding hot with rage.

“You mean rape her.”

“Y-yes.”

I swing his club down on top of his shaved skull, and he shouts in pain. The bare lightbulb above him shines on his reddening scalp. I curl my lip at him as I watch the satisfying goose egg form. This man tried to rape my wife.

“What else?” I demand. “What else did Seven tell you to do?”

“I-I was supposed to carve the number seven into her.”

I swing again. This time I connect with the wound Cora left on the back of this fucker’s head. He goes limp. I prod his cheek with his club until he comes to.

“Where?” I ask.

“The alley,” he slurs.

“Where on my wife’s body were you supposed to carve the number seven?”

“I can’t remember,” he says, so I jog his memory. “Her face, middle of her cheek.”

I toss his club aside. It clatters to the concrete as I slam my fist into his cheekbone. He tries to spit out blood, a weak dribble down his chin.

Seven will pay for this.

Earlier today I imagined snapping the spine of our greatest enemy. Retaliation for my wife’s bruise. Now I’m fantasizing which words I’m going to carve into that motherfucker’s skin.