Page 31 of Spade

I nodded, then rested back on my haunches. I could see his hands now, the little tremor in the knuckle of his trigger finger. He didn’t want to shoot me, but he was more afraid of letting me go.

He looked down at the body, then back at me. “Another one for your collection?”

“Call it pest control,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “You think you’re making the city better?”

I shrugged. “Cleaner, at least.”

He shook his head like he was trying to wake himself up. “How long?” he asked. “How many since the last time?”

I did the math. “Two this week. Four, if you count the ones that didn’t make the news.”

He said, “You keep track?”

I met his gaze. “Wouldn’t you?”

He took another step, shoes splashing through a thin wash of blood. He flinched, just a tic, then doubled down on his grip. “Why the pattern? Why them?”

I almost laughed. “You know why. Same reason you’re not calling this in right now.”

His cheek twitched. I’d landed something.

“Who was it for you?” I asked. “Sister? Mom? First girlfriend who thought your badge would save her?”

He didn’t answer. The silence grew teeth. The city’s noise faded until all I heard was our breathing, and the thump of my pulse echoing in the bones of my face.

I said, “You want the truth? I do it because nobody else does. Because every time I read about another girl in a dumpster, I want to take a blowtorch to the whole fucking planet.”

His jaw set, hard enough I thought he’d chip enamel.

“And what?” he said. “That makes you a hero?”

“Not a hero.” I gestured at the mess with a flick of my wrist. “Just not a coward.”

He jerked his head toward the body. “You don’t know this guy. You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough,” I said. “I know what he did to the girls in that club. I know the ones he sold to the creeps at the motels off Boulder Highway. I know he liked to leave marks where no one would see until it was too late. You want more?”

He said nothing.

I could see his hands now, both of them. The knuckles on the gun hand were white. The other was clamped tightly to the flashlight, as if he were afraid of dropping it and losing all control.

I said, “You want me to stop, you’re going to have to shoot me.”

He didn’t blink. “Maybe I will.”

I believed him. But not enough to move. “Do it,” I said.

He stepped in, closing the distance to ten feet. The gun never wavered. “Give me a reason.”

“You have plenty.”

“Give me a good one.”

I looked at the body, then back at him. “Because if you shoot, the only person who gives a shit about these girls dies right here with me.”

He exhaled, ragged. The air steamed in the gap between us, mixing with the heat from the exhaust fan overhead.