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“I do?” He pulls his arm back. He’s having doubts and I’m having a rush of energy.
I lean forward and hover my mouth near his, as close as I can stand. “Yeah, you do. It’s Tove.”
I wait until I get that look of recognition. The one I’ve been waiting to see.
And there it is.
“Shit. Tovaaaay? Fuck.” He purses his lips after dragging my name out in seeming anguish. “I’ve wondered how you’ve been…”
“Oh, have you?” I ask, cynicism deepening my voice.
He starts to wriggle back from me but I bring the Kershaw to his throat, pressing the tip hard enough against his skin that he’s having serious, major, second thoughts about offering me that ride. His throat bobs and his forehead glistens.
“What do you want?” he croaks.
“King. Where is he?”
His eyes flicker, dart side to side. “King? I don’t know where he is.”
I press the knife harder, teeth clenched. “I’m not fucking around, Peter. Tell me his real name or where he is, or so help me God I’ll cut off that dick you shoved in my mouth when I was ten.”
His breath hits my face in nervous bursts. I can finally smell his fear. “I—I don’t know where he is. I swear to you. Swear on my family.”
“Bullshit. Now, you’re going to cough up a name if you ever want to see your wife again.”
Licking his lips and searching my eyes, Peter Snowden seems to be pondering a way out. He knows something. He has to. I tighten my grip around the blade’s handle and push harder still, ready to slit his throat and walk away. But then he whisps in a tight breath and throws his palms up.
“Benjamin Figueiredo,” he snaps, attempting to lean away from me. “He knows where he is.”
Well, this is interesting. I thought he’d give me King’s full name. Not tell me who knows him.
“Benjamin Figueiredo?” I repeat.
His head whips up and down in a nod, fear glazing his soon-to-be-dead eyes.
“And where is he?”
“Here in Phoenix. Runs an app company. And—and …he and King work it together. I—I forget the name of it.”
I lick the tops of my teeth, run my tongue over the scar tissue inside my cheek, the one that started forming the night I was molested by Snowden and the others. Feels like I’ve come full circle. I really do want to cut off Snowden’s dick but what would be the point? He’s about to see his maker.
“If you’re lying, you’re dying.”
When he lets out a whimper, I twist the blade.
“I’m not,” he cries, voice wobbly.
“Good.” In one swift move, I plunge the knife through his neck. Gristle and skin crunch against the blade and the garbled sounds of regret bubble up his throat as his carotid spurts blood into the air, landing on the windshield, the steering wheel, and my face.
I jerk back, then grip the door handle with my coat sleeve to avoid leaving behind prints. Before bolting from the seat, I snatch Peter’s phone and dart outside.
Slamming the door shut with my foot, I watch him through the blood-streaked glass. My pulse hammers as he claws his throat. And I’m silently rejoicing that I’ve achieved the retribution I sought.
The truth seems to be settling in, and his face freezes as he falls to the side.
I push on the edge of the knife, closing it before dropping it back inside my coat pocket. Then, shaking, I tap the screen of his phone and it lights up, prompting me to enter a passcode.
Damnit. Of course it’s password protected.
