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My nostrils flare in disdain when he doesn’t even try to deny it.
“I wish I could say it was just dumb luck that the woman and kid you killed were none other than the wife and only child to the district attorney. Worse luck still is that for all his holier than thou talk about putting the scum of the earth behind bars for their crimes, he’s not so keen on trusting the justice system when it’s his own blood on the line. That, shit head, means you got me instead of Lady Justice.”
His sudden calm reaction to everything I’m saying hits a nerve, and when he starts mumbling something, something that sounds awfully like a prayer asking for absolution, I lose my shit.
“Are you fucking praying?” I shout in his face, my spit hitting him in the eye. “You think God is going to come for you and save you from this? Open the pearly white gates of heaven for your ass to walk right through just because you decide you’re sorry now? Newsflash, motherfucker! There is no fucking God. If there was, he wouldn’t let a piece of shit like you kill two innocent people and just go about your business like nothing happened.”
The thought of Layla and Zoey immediately comes to mind as I shout those words.
But they aren’t the only image I focus on.
It’s the small, defenseless boy whose mangled body must have needed to be scraped from the concrete with a shovel that ends up increasing my fury.
I stare at the camera that has been filming this scene for the past hour and offer a shrug.
“Consider this a freebie,” I say to the camera, and then I slice the fucker open from navel to jaw.
I drop the scalpel in my hand and wipe the blood spatter off my face before I turn off the camera.
Sloppy handiwork.
I hate it when I’m sloppy.
I prefer a level head when I’m working.
I’m clean and calculating, and this was anything but.
It seems that’s how this shit is going to continue to go on if I don’t get some intel on how those two girls are doing. I can’t concentrate on anything else if I don’t.
Goddamn it.
My pops was right.
Having a heart is a bitch.
And worse, it’s bad for fucking business.
* * *
Two hours later, I’m strolling through the same hospital where I left an inconsolable Zoey and her big sister, Layla, not two weeks ago. The only difference is that this time, I’m not just dropping them off and making a quick getaway. This time I’ll need some answers first before I leave. Stupid, I know. I shouldn’t get involved, especially since I committed a murder and it will be handled by the police, but I have to know they are okay.
“We’ve been trying to reach you, but you didn’t leave a phone number or a name,” the male nurse sitting behind the counter explains after I ask about the girls’ whereabouts. “The police wanted to speak with you too.”
That’s the precise reason why I didn’t leave my name and number, idiot, I think to myself. “That can wait. Right now, I just want to see how the girls are doing,” I reply curtly.
“They left. Child services took them.”
“Already?” I cock a brow. “The girl was shot, for fuck’s sake. What kind of butcher shop are you guys running here? Patching them up with a Band-Aid and kicking them to the curb is not how you deal with gunshot wounds,” I growl, my blood starting to boil out of nowhere.
Before I have time to analyze why the fuck I’m acting this way, the male nurse is scribbling on a piece of paper.
“Here. This is the address they were taken to. That’s all I have,” he says before handing me the yellow Post-it note, his fingers trembling in fear.
What a fucking pussy.
If all I had to do was talk a little loudly to scare him, then he would pee his pants if he knew that I was scrubbing guts and blood off my beard a few hours ago.
I snap the Post-it out of his hand and turn my back to him, walking outside to my car and hoping the address he gave me isn’t some wild goose chase he’s sending me on.
