Page 111 of River Wild

Years of trying to be invisible in the house around my stepdad when I was a kid.

Not that it ever made a difference.

I know the basic layout of this prick’s house. Marcus sent me the floor plan via email while I was sitting outside, waiting.

The bathroom door is open.

He’s standing in front of the sink, washing his hands. His head is down.

I can see myself in the mirror above his head.

I try not to look at myself.

I wait for him to lift his eyes and see me.

His head rises, and he blanches.

“Remember me?” I smile evilly at him in the mirror.

He moves quickly, grabbing the door to shut it.

I’m quicker.

I force the door back open.

He stumbles back against the counter. “I haven’t done anything!” he cries.

I cock my head to the side. “You sure about that?”

“I haven’t! I swear!”

I recite the store name where I saw him.

Fear fills his face.

Righteousness covers mine.

“Told you I’d be watching.” I turn and close the bathroom door behind me, locking it. “And you didn’t listen. So, it’s time for you and I to have the second part of our little chat.”

“No! No!” the weak, pathetic, sick little fucker chants, sliding along the counter. “Yes, I was in there! But I didn’t do anything. I promise! I was only looking. I didn’t touch anyone, I swear!”

Only looking.

“It’s your fault, River. You make me do this. You’re so beautiful. I can’t help myself. Be quiet now. It will only hurt for a minute.”

I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

I’m not here. I’m somewhere else. Someplace safe.

Just don’t look, River. Don’t open your eyes. It’ll be over soon.

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down.

I grab the sick bastard by his fat, meaty hand, dragging him to me.

He’s crying now.

And I feel nothing.

I bend down to his height, lowering my face to his. He’s crying harder now. His face is white with fear.

Fucking pussy.

He can give it, but he can’t take it.

I smile. It’s a twisted kind of smile. I’d like to say it was an act. But it’s not. Because I know I’m going to enjoy this.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, getting the cigar cutter from my pocket. I tighten my hold on his hand, singling out his little fat finger. “This will only hurt for a minute.”

Unlike the lifetime of pain that you gave to those two boys, I think as I slide the cutter over the tip of his finger.