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“Calm down, Nami.” Becca’s eyes darted from me and to the cliff I precariously held her to. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said, pushing her closer to the edge. “I’m getting rid of the infection in this town. Cut off the necrotizing flesh and eventually it goes away. Maybe I should start with you.” I shook her and more rocks tumbled down. Nausea crept up my throat at the thought that Raskol had tumbled down with them.
Riley swallowed. The laughter in her eyes vanished and was replaced with fear. I didn’t feel victorious like I had thought I would. I didn’t feel joy or relief or anything. I felt pain for Raskol and when she looked at me with fear, I saw myself. I saw myself beneath Morris, utterly terror struck.
Still furious, I let her go.
“Go home, you necrotic cunt.” Riley didn’t wait for me to say it twice. She scrambled away and I heard a car sound seconds later.
Everything was numb. Some of that had to do with the fact that I was now on the ground with snow seeping through my clothes and turning my skin frozen, but most of it had to do with my emotional grid. I had short-circuited.
I stared out at the city that had taken everything from me. The lights twinkled beautifully, but all I saw was necrosis. I officially had nothing left.
Thirteen
Monday
There’s not enough whiskey in the world.
Tuesday
All out of alcohol.
Wednesday
Found some beer in the back of the fridge. Smells funny but it will have to do. Tuesday was miserable. Without alcohol I was up all night thinking of Raskol. The image of his dorky, happy face falling to its death…
I opened the first can of beer.
Thursday
10:00 pm and I’ve stopped throwing up skunked beer. Probably because I ran out of stuff to throw up. It was a nice distraction.
Friday
The ass-print on my couch officially has its own area code.
Saturday
Out of alcohol again. Out of vomit. Either going to sink into my couch and become one through symbiosis, or get even.
I opened up the planner I’d stolen from Riley’s. It had been exactly a week since I?
??d taken it. The odds of it still being accurate were slim, but it was all I had.
According to the planner, the next day Morris would be at the continental breakfast at a downtown hotel. I shut the book with a new, blacker determination on my mind
Raskol, my rape—it couldn’t all be in vain.
Fourteen
Mitch Morris needed to die.
The thought was crystal clear as I watched him across the street, eating Sunday brunch as if it was any other day. I supposed to him it was any other day, though. He wasn’t battling with crushing grief. His psyche wasn’t sinking into charcoal. He was just eating his goddamn eggs and sausage.
Every Sunday Morris ate brunch with his family. Sunday he took off, because it was the Lord’s day. His election offices were closed, or at least that’s what Morris led you to believe. Morris closed the office on Sunday because he liked to make a show of taking the Lord’s day off. In reality his PR team was always working and so was Becca Riley.
My fingers inadvertently twitched the trigger of my gun at the thought of Riley. I used to think my mission would be complete once Morris was ruined, but now I wasn’t so sure. Morris truly was Hydra. Cut off one head, and another emerged. I glared at him as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. Once he was dead, I would have to cauterize Becca Riley.
