We’ll have to stay and cooperate with the authorities until Mitchell is okay. While the firefighters move in, Link logs into the surveillance system, transfers the footage to his own server, then wipes the rest. The police will have only Mitchell’s statement about an intruder, and he doesn’t remember what happened after that. With no video, they won’t have much to go on.
A dead body triggers an investigation. An insurance claim draws a lot more attention. We won’t file. We need every trace covered, because we’re handling this piece of shit ourselves. The cops could give him a slap on the wrist or let him walk, and we can’t have that.
It’s three hours later, after we’ve given testimony, before we can join Connor. I have no doubt Dean and Carter are doing fine without us at the gallery, so we only text them where we’re headed.
First trimester. That’s what Kyle told us his girlfriend was in when he shared the news. He was planning on starting as a bartendersince he needed extra income for when the baby came. I’ll make sure his girlfriend has enough money not to struggle as a single parent. I can’t bring back dead people, but financially, I can make sure the child is taken care of.
Those thoughts ride with me to Hollow Bend, while Link pulls up the surveillance footage. It confirms what we already knew, and judging by Link’s taut jaw, I’m not the only one out for blood. But how did that man know to open the main valve, effectively sabotaging the gas fire-suppression system? Did Jacob provide that information?
As soon as we’re inside the house and at the threshold of the designated torture room, I can hear the guy’s screams. I guess we didn’t do a good enough job of soundproofing.
Opening the door, I’m met by the sight of Connor with wire flush cutters and blood dripping from the tied-to-the-chair man’s hand. When the piece of shit sees Link and me, he starts laughing.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” I ask Connor, and he pulls to the side to give me a full view of the man there.
“Check out his pupils. He’s high.”
This guy’s pupils are consuming his irises.
“Can it be from the hit on the head? He was bleeding,” Link asks.
“Negative! If it were a concussion, they would’ve been uneven in size or at least lagging in response to light. It’s drugs.”
That prick’s laughter cuts off when I punch him in the face.
“That’s better,” I note. “What are you on?” My question is for the man with six fingers. That’s how many Connor left him with until we got to him. I would’ve expected him to have gone through all ten fingers by now. He’s shown restraint.
“Got some blow in ma back pocket if ya want.” There’s a notable lisp in his speech. I think he’s missing teeth. Yep. A lot.
“He was hired by a tall blond guy to ruin as many paintings as he could,” Connor cuts in.
“Blond? That’s not Jacob,” Link comments.
“It’s the asshole he hangs with,” I note. “Did he tell you toset the place on fire?” A kick to the prick in front of me snaps his attention down from the ceiling.
“Nooo. He said no one should be there when... the security switches for five minutes. But there were guards... and I... needed the money.”
Connor hits the still nameless guy in the guts, pulling out a sharp, breathless scream. He doesn’t need a name to judge him, and neither do I.
“How much do you remember from what you did tonight?” I ask, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.
Snatching the cutters from Connor, I bury them deep into the junkie’s hand. A scream, spit, and blood shoot out of his mouth.
But he glares?
This is not his first time being tortured.
“When I ask a question, you answer! You got that?” I snarl, and I’m on the verge of taking those cutters out of his hand, only to keep on cutting fingers for the sheer pleasure of punishing him.
“He squealed like a pig!What do ya care? Your rich ass can hire a new guard.”
My foot slams into his chest full-force, the kick pitching him backward, chair and all, as he hits the concrete hard. It splinters on impact, the arms snapping clean off, his wrists still bound to jagged pieces of wood. It takes me two steps to reach him and drop to a knee.
I seize his head by the hair, pin it, and drive my fist down. The first hit is... addictive. For one sharp second, hurting him for what he did makes my own guilt feel quieter. Then I hit him again. Something in his face gives with a sickening crack, and when his mocking words replay in my mind, I lose whatever control I had left. I keep swinging, one punch after another, until there’s nothing left of him to recognize, and my knuckles are slick, aching. But I’m still not stopping.
He’s dead. But I can’t make myself quit.
Link and Connor finally do it for me, dragging me off him withboth hands and all their strength.
