Page 74 of The Killer Card

Unlike the door to the attic, Grandfather’s office door doesn’t creak when I push it open. The gun is still right where I left it this morning, resting loaded on the edge of the desk.

Quiet as the grave, I pick it up. There’s no need for me to cock the gun, thereby giving myself away. I did that this morning, as part of my expert loading. The safety comes undone with a flick of my thumb. I raise the gun, aim it at the back of my grandfather’s head…

Andrei meets my eyes in the mirror above the fireplace and rushes to his feet. He tackles my grandfather to the floor before I can pull the trigger and then he’s coming after me. I shoot, but he’s too close and I barely get his shoulder before his hands are around my throat, forcing me to the ground. Spots start popping in my vision, my oxygen deprived brain seeking a way out as I writhe beneath him.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he seethes. “Who the fuck do you think you are?! Worthless, spineless, piece of shit—”

I hit him upside the head with the gun, knocking him off me enough to scramble out from under him. And then I’m on top, straddling his chest, gripping his collar as I bash the butt of the gun into his face over and over and over again.

At first he tries to unseat me, but if any good has come from my treatment over the years, it’s that my core strength is absurd and my determination even stronger. He tries but is unsuccessful and each time I bring the gun down onto his face he tries just a little less, and less until he stops trying altogether. Until he lays still beneath me. Until his face is an unrecognizable mess of blood and teeth and whatever fluid lives in eyeballs.

Still, I don’t stop hitting him. I keep going and going, putting all my hurt and frustration and loathing behind every punch. My arms are sore. My back is tired. But I keep fucking hitting him—

Until the groan of a chair across wooden floors has me turning in a blink, training the still loaded gun on my grandfather’s haggard expression. It’s the first time I’ve seen a hint of fear in his eyes, but either he’s trying to hide it, or the sensation hasn’t quite caught up to his lips because they tilt in placating smile.

“Put down the gun, Grisha—”

“Don’t you dare fucking call me that,” I snarl, pushing off Andrei to stand on unsteady legs. He notices when I catch myself on the back of a chair. “Don’t you dare ever pretend to harbor affection for me you wrinkled old slug.”

His brows narrow. “You are my grandson and you will obey—”

“I’ve done nothing but obey you!” I shout. Tears are starting to slide down my cheeks, my voice catching in my throat. “I’ve done everything you ask but one and yet you have forced that upon me too! So don’t you dare stand there and pretend you see me as yours! Don’t you dare stand there and tell me I mean a damn thing to you other than being something for you to use!”

My hand around the gun is starting to shake and I fight to keep it steady.

“How much have you profited off of me?! How much was my innocence worth to you?! Thousands?! More?! Tell me, Grandfather, was it worth your fucking life?!”

He has just one second to recognize the danger he’s truly in before I pull the goddamn trigger and watch as my grandfather’s brains stain the mahogany walls. His body hits the floor a second before my knees, and then I’m curling in on myself- sobbing, shaking, screaming- pressing the burning barrel of the gun to the hollow beneath my chin.

My finger wraps around the trigger as the study door bursts open.

4 Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Four

Graham

Naomi is trying to hide her tears when I finish the story, but her voice cracks, giving her away. “How could anyone do that to a child…?”

She takes my wet shirt from the kitchen table, twisting it in her hands, examining it as if the blood stains can give her the answers to the tragedy that was my life.

Was.

That word is so important. It’s been two decades, an entire twenty years since that kid was assaulted and beaten. Twenty years since he wanted to remove himself from this world. I didn’t tell her everything, but what I did tell her- the abuse, the drugs, the rape- is plenty to give her an idea of just how I was made. These were the events that shaped the man I became. A man who struggled for decades to be free of his demons and sometimes- like tonight- can’t help letting them back in. I have lapses in judgement. I’m temperamental, and I don’t handle conflict well, but I’m no longer a danger to myself the way that kid was twenty years ago.

That was my life, but not anymore. Because twenty years is a long time to change. It’s a lot of time to reflect and learn, and other than an unhealthy obsession with a woman half my age, I turned out just fine.

I am fine.

It didn’t happen all at once and I can’t take full credit for all that’s good in my life. There were many years I was at death’s door, constantly knocking, shouting, jiggling the knob. I wanted to be let in so badly I didn’t care who I hurt along the way. Luckily, I have friends who are made of stronger stuff than me.

“Now you know the sixth reason,” I tell her then sigh, “Of course, it’ll be seven after tonight, I guess…”

I did nearly kill a man, but honestly, I wish I just had. That fuck deserves to die, if not by my hands, then by Rowan’s. And since he’s much too mighty and just or whatever, I’ll gladly take up the mantle.

The guy won’t press charges. He can’t really. I was defending Clara from him. What’s he really got on me other than ruining his moderately attractive face? The disturbance I caused in the club on the other hand…

“I texted Nathan,” Naomi sniffs, standing and turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’ll give him a call now. Make sure he knows the whole story.” Pointing to the kitchen door she adds, “You can shower in my room.”