Page 16 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms again. “I’ll eat whatever you cook.”

Turning my back to him, I yank some milk and an egg from the fridge, along with a package of pork chops sitting on the shelf. “I’m a little tipsy, Jörgen, so promise me something. If I burn down the house doing this, you’ll tell Rip it was something along the lines of faulty electrical wiring, right?”

He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t lie to my friend.”

“Well, I’m not taking the fall alone. So we’re either in this together or you’re going to starve.”

“I got your back.”

I smile at his accent. “So are all of Dorian’s men big and scary like you and Rip or did you guys just naturally flock together like that whole birds of a feather thing?”

“Ripley saved my life.”

“So he said.” I scour through the cupboards to find there’s no flour, no breadcrumbs. Nothing for breading at all. Just a bunch of healthy crap labeled with non-GMO and certified organic.

At the top of the cupboard he has a bag of pork rinds, though—the kind in the bright yellow and red packaging that screams heart disease and burly men watching football. Perfect. I yank them down, noticing only half a bag left, and begin crushing them up. “So to pay it forward, you’ve been babysitting his women in return ever since, huh? I mean, doesn’t really seem fair. He saved you once and now you’re his nanny for life?”

“Two years, he’s never asked me for anything in return. You’re the first.”

Still crushing the rinds, I turn to face him, refusing to believe that Ripley would use his favor from Jörgen for me. “Never asked you to drive him to the airport? Grab his laundry from the cleaners? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he echoes.

“This Dorian … he must be some kind of character for Ripley to have you keep an eye on me then.”

A dark shadow crawls over Jörgen’s face and his eyes flip from warmth to something far more serious. “I’ve known many cruel people. Dorian and Enzo Bertrand are the worst.”

9

Ripley

The scream that echoes down the dark corridor of the abandoned building is hoarse, marked by the agony of suffering beyond terror. Exhausted. Weak. Perhaps even on the verge of death.

It’s been four days since I strapped Randy to the table, and left him bleeding out of the wounds I’d inflicted in him. Cruel, but when I think what he nearly did to Dylan, and perhaps other young girls, not nearly cruel enough.

I enter the room that reeks of piss and rancid flesh, telling me his wounds have become infected. A long, droning moan fills the small space as I approach him where he lies trembling, white with sickness.

“No … more rats. Please! No more.”

I trail my gaze down to his legs where rat bites mar his skin, tearing right through his jeans. With a gloved hand, I lift a piece of the fabric and the glisten of a wet, oozing wound confirms it.

“Don’t touch it!” His scream cracks into a rasp and he kicks his leg to keep me from probing it.

With some amusement, I swing my gaze back to him. “Any chance you know who I am?”

“I’ve h-h-heard of you.”

“Oh yeah? What’ve you heard?” I ask.

“Th-th-they say you’re crazy.” His eyes widen at my frown. “I-I-I don’t think that, though.”

“Be honest. Do I look crazy?” I tip my head, leaning into his face.

He rolls his eyes upward, toward the ceiling, avoiding my mind-drilling gaze. “N-n-not at all.”

“You’re lying, Randy. I see it in your shit-brown eyes. See, that’s my job. I hunt for lies.” I set down my black bag beside him and begin removing my tools. Sometimes the sight of them alone gets a man to spill all his secrets, but Randy doesn’t say a word. Not yet, anyway. “So I’ll get this honesty shit rolling by confessing this won’t be quick or painless.”

His eyeballs track every movement, watching me with a trembling lip that tells me he can undoubtedly imagine the damage that each instrument will inflict.