Page 77 of The Woman I’ve Become

I laugh, a bitter sound. “You think you had trust issues after that.” She has no fucking idea.

“You just took over,” she says, evidently stalled on the point.

“I did.”

“That’s why you did all that volunteer work,” Alicia says, speaking again finally. “You didn’t know how to be a therapist. You weren’t the one with all the degrees.”

“That’s right,” I admit. “But I knew far more than I would have preferred about shitty childhoods and dealing with men who are predators. I had something to offer other women, so I put it out there. For free.”

“You left me with that monster for nine long years.” Julia’s voice is vicious. A part of her would love to tear me to pieces. “Then when you decided to eliminate them, you saved the worst for last.” She hugs herself as if the memories shake her even now, a whole year later.

My own haunting memories shake me even ten-plus years later.

“That’s right. Nine years. It was nine and a half for me, so you got off a little light.” I lean forward to make sure she sees the barely restrained rage in my eyes. “In all that time you never told anyone about me or the person I was last seen with. So don’t go feeling sorry for yourself that you had to suffer the same sentence I did. And, just so you know, I left you with the only one who played fast and loose with the rules, allowing for an anonymous drop-off. None of the others would have dared. Ask me if I regret it?” I shake my head. “Not one fucking bit.”

Her lips pinch with the need to lash out at me, but what is there to say?

Oh yeah. There’s this. I remind her, “At least I came back for you.”

One Year Ago

34

Wendy

Manhattan, New York

I should make her wait until December so we’re even. But my daughter starts kindergarten in August, and I do not want to still be doing this then. There will be too many commitments. I want this over and done. Behind me, once and for all.

I stand in the shadows across the street from my destination. I was with that son of a bitch Saunderson for nine years, seven months, and thirteen days. She really does deserve equal time.

But motherhood changes things. It’s the only reason I’m here at all, if I’m completely honest. At first taking out these bastards was revenge, yes, but mostly it was a deterrent to ensure they could never do this to anyone else. Men like the keepers can’t be reformed. There are high-profile examples in the news all the time.

When Olivia was born, something shifted inside me. I realized I had to protect her and other little girls from men like this. Maybe it’s only a handful of players but at least I’m contributing to the extinction of a fatally flawed subgroup of the male species. If the fucking authorities aren’t going to stop them, someone has to. More women should take up the cause.

Easy to say, I remind myself. Not all women have the resources I do. I spent an entire year taking intense self-defense classes and strengthening my body before I started this journey five years ago. I’ve purchased all sorts of handy tools from the black market to aid in my work. More importantly, I have firsthand intel on these bastards. I know their likes and dislikes. I know their routines and schedules. More importantly, I know their names and where they live. I’ve kept tabs on them since my escape.

I considered going to the FBI, but I didn’t want this to turn into another of their infamous cover-ups. Instead, I decided to do it myself. My keeper was the first of my kills. Looking back, I realized as he lay bleeding out that it was all in the planning. It’s very much like preparing a holiday feast for a huge family. Plan your date. Make your lists and ensure you have everything you need. Start on schedule and follow the steps. Never deviate. Never fail to be fully prepared. Nothing ruins a good souffle like poor egg prep. Preparation is everything.

Ending the next keeper was even easier, and so on. I felt no sympathy, no regret. I was doing a good thing.

As a protective measure, I never wear the same type of disguise twice, and I plan every move carefully so as not to strike on the same day of the week or even the same hour of the day as a previous one. Every single detail is different. This prevents not only the investigators from noting a pattern, but also the keepers themselves.

It is imperative that each kill looks like a one-off—a random act of violence related to a robbery or a bad choice on the keeper’s part. All have bragged at one time or another about picking up a stray from a street corner. Though there is only one who dared to do it more than once.

Whether once or dozens of times, bad choices often do not end well.

I cross the street, careful never to look in the direction of a potential camera. I have scouted the location and feel confident I know where all the neighbors’ exterior cameras are. Still, I am cautious.

It’s almost midnight. This keeper, the one they call the Monster, loves his middle-of-the-night playtime. He has dismissed all members of his household staff. He will be completely alone with his toy or toys. I go around back since he prefers his deliveries at the rear entrance. He has an end-of-block brownstone with a side entrance to the back outdoor area. I carry a bag filled with expensive wine and cheeses. He has a penchant for certain cheese. He and his nasty little group liked to surprise each other with gifts. Of course, they’re all dead now. Except for him. I’m sure he must be lonely. This, too, makes me happy.

I press the bell three times before he appears at the door. I can’t see him since the door has no window, but I hear his approach. He’s checking via a security peephole to see who has dared to come to his back door. He is likely armed. But I’m not afraid. I know the right things to say to set him at ease.

The door opens and he glares at me. Since he is completely naked save for the handgun he holds and his penis is erect, I confirm that he is already in playtime.

“Charles sent you a gift.”

Charles Renforth is a very high-profile judge who is not a keeper but who is lifelong friends with this one. The Monster conceals his proclivities from friends like Renforth. Frankly, the rich and powerful rarely look for the flaws. They would rather not see. It makes life more comfortable.