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Murder…. That one word rolls around in my head until it settles like a rock.
My eyes go wide, my feet rooted to the spot. But I don’t run. Maybe a few days ago, I would have, but I know this man. Sort of. I think. “Murder?” I whisper, a little devastated.
He curtly nods. “I was seventeen.”
“Who did you - ah -” I try to remain calm as I brush the hair from my cheek. “Kill?”
“His name was Rick Smith,” he answers, his voice still rumbly. “My foster father.”
I nod as though this makes total sense even though it doesn’t. I realize then and there that I know nothing about Cole. Not a damn thing, so my voice is a little hostile when I ask, “Why?”
He turns and leans his ass against the counter while crossing his arms over his chest. “I had a sister.”
“Okay . . .” I say, drawing out the word. “Like a foster sister?”
He shakes his head. “Biological.”
“What do you mean had?” I ask with a frown.
His glance in my direction is one full of pain, and I have the urge to try to comfort him, but again, I’m rooted to the spot. If I move, I could scare him from talking to me. I need answers.
“She killed herself while I was in prison.”
My lips part, and a small gasp escapes. “I’m so sorry, Cole. What happened? Why did she –”
“Kill herself?” he interrupts when the word is too hard for me to spit out. I nod, and he sighs, resigned to the fact that I’m not going anywhere until the truth is out. “It’s a long story.”
“I can make time,” I murmur.
Breathing deep, he begins. “It felt like every night Rick would sneak into her room.”
My skin crawls, and dread fills me as my imagination runs wild. “To do what?” I ask softly, even though I know the answer.
He clenches his jaw. “To rape her.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my god.”
“His wife knew what was going on. There was no way she didn’t. My sister’s crying filtered into my bedroom. She had to have heard it too.”
I swallow with difficulty. “So you killed him?”
He looks at me and nods. “It started when she was ten and always happened around two in the morning. One night, a few days after my seventeenth birthday, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and waited. He slipped into her room at the usual time, and I followed him in. My sister watched as I drove the knife into his back, yanked it out, and slit his throat.”
My hand trembles, but I drop it back to my side and gently set my mug on the counter next to his. I don’t have any siblings, but I can only imagine. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
He chuffs and looks away. “Smith, remember? Same last name as George Smith?”
“Oh god, the sheriff and your foster father were related.”
He tightens his arms around his chest. “Cousins. I reported Rick on several occasions, but they never did anything. Not once.”
“So you took it into your own hands.”
“I did,” he admits. He looks at me and searches my expression, waiting to find something. And then it hits me, what exactly, he’s looking for: Justification.
“I don’t have any siblings, but I would have done the same thing, Cole.” I would have. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d do the exact same thing if horrors like that happened to someone I loved.
I watch as his throat constricts when he swallows. “If I could, I’d do it all over again.”
