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“Is he in a mental institution?” I asked.
That would make the most sense. Dean wasn’t a bad guy; he was just fucking crazy. I mean, no sane person cuts himself and then jacks off over clothing. He needed psychiatric help, not punishment. Or, as we say as a euphemism: rehabilitation.
“No,” Vic replied, visibly irritated.
“Then, where is he?” I pressed. I was starting to get frustrated. This was my problem, after all. I appreciated Vic’s help more than I could ever say, but I had a right to know.
“Look.” Vic faced me. “He’s not coming back.”
I slammed my fork down on the table. “How can you possibly know that?” I would get the answers I needed, even if it meant no sex tonight. Or tomorrow.
But Vic wouldn’t answer me. He ate his food in silence, so my mind began to mull over the pieces I remembered. I picked up my fork and pushed around haricot vert—they looked like regular ole green beans to me.
Images of guns and knives came crawling back into my mind.
Vic slowly chewed his food, looking like he wasn’t planning to volunteer information anytime soon.
“Wait. You didn’t . . .” It dawned on me. He did. He killed Dean. “Holy shit.” My fork clattered against the china plate loudly.
Vic paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
“He was going to kill you, Lennox. We found a knife, a condom, a rope, and some lye in your apartment.” Vic finished, lifting a forkful of food to his mouth casually, like we were talking about a television show.
I felt sick. There was such a thing as trial-by-jury. There was such a thing as justice.
Vic folded his napkin on the table and spoke carefully, “I am greater than justice. I am who justice calls when justice can’t be delivered.”
What the hell did that mean? That sounded like some weird-ass Batman shit. I told him as much.
“I’m special operations; I went out on a limb for you, Lennox.”
“So you want me to be thankful you murdered someone?” I asked, my voice rising.
Vic grabbed my knee and held it tightly.
“I want you to understand that under no circumstances can you talk about this. It won’t end well for you.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Was he threatening me? Yes, he was threatening me. The man who said no harm would ever come to me was now threatening me. “You replaced an evil with a bigger evil.” I slouched in to the booth’s seat. This was too much.
He shook his head. “No, Lennox. Not at all—”
“Fuck you!” I shouted.
Vic’s eyes widened at my outburst.
That’s right! I’m J-Lo in Enough and I just learned kickboxing. I’m sick of men pushing me around. I’m sick of this victim bullshit. “Fuck you! Pretending that
you’re some savior. Going around killing people and acting like you’re doing it to protect women. Fuck you! All you did was step into his place!” I pushed him. He didn’t even sway. It’s like trying to fight a redwood tree.
Vic glanced around, forehead furrowed. “You’re making a scene.”
“So!” I let my voice get louder.
Vic reached for my hand. I recoiled.
“Goddammit, Lennox, when have I ever hurt you?”
I started counting on my fingers sarcastically. “There was that time at the cabin. Then there was that other time at the cabin. Then there was that time at your apartment. Oh, let’s not forget that time with your wife . . .”
