Sashko stepped out from behind the curtain, surveying the scene.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Did you have to shoot him while his tongue was still in her mouth? That’s cold. Even for you.”
I holstered my weapon and stared at the puddle of man on the floor.
“Timing is everything,” I said. “And if he was lucky, he died with a hard-on.”
Sashko started checking the perimeter, glancing out the window toward the front exit where the judge’s security sat in a car outside. They were close enough to guard the house but not close enough to hear much. We didn’t expect a response, not this fast.
As I turned back toward the hallway, a flicker of unease crept in. The girl was gone, vanished without a trace. A low pulse of instinct flared in my chest—I didn’t like that. Not one bit.
The house had fallen into a tense silence. There was no sound of running water, no footsteps, no indication of movement.
I began moving through the house, each step muffled by polished tile. One bedroom door stood open, revealing a neatly made bed and nothing else. The next door was shut, silent behind its pristine frame.
Then it came—a soft, unmistakable rattle. Pills.
I crossed the hall in two strides and pushed the door open without hesitation.
She was in the master bedroom, crumpled on the floor near the edge of the bed. Her knees were drawn to her chest, body trembling, the silky robe she wore now stiff with dried blood. A bottle of pills was clutched in her hands, her fingers fumbling at the cap with a desperation so visceral it looked like she truly believed the only way out was at the bottom of that bottle. Her hands were shaking so hard they couldn’t even twist the cap open.
“Put that down.”
She jumped like I’d struck her. Her head snapped up.
Her face was pale, blotched with dried blood and tears. Still smeared with whatever was left of the judge’s skull. Her eyes were red, but her stare was hollow.
“You wanted to die,” I said calmly, “you could’ve just asked. I’m faster.”
She let out a brittle sound, something caught between a sob and a hollow, bitter laugh, then turned her face away as if the very sight of me stirred something sharper than grief—anger, maybe even disgust.
“I’m nobody without him.”
I stepped forward, slow.
“He was a good man,” she whispered. “He was helping me.”
I leaned against the doorframe. “You’ll find yourself another sugar daddy.”
She snapped.
“Fuck you.”
Something sharp twisted in my jaw.
The air changed.
I stepped further inside, slow and deliberate.
She had no idea who she was talking to. No clue how close she’d just come to learning what it meant to make a man like me angry.
My hands didn’t move but my blood was heating.
Her voice cracked with rage. She looked up at me, tears streaking through the grime on her cheeks. “He wasn’t my sugar daddy, you heartless fuck. He was helping me find my son.”
She choked on the word. Son.
And then it came, raw and heaving. “He’s out there. Missing. My little boy. And now… now I have no one left. No hope. No plan. No faith. Nothing.”
