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How in the hell is that possible? We have a top-notch security system. The best money can buy and it’s supposed to be unhackable.
Fucking Whisper.
It has to be. It’s rumored that he’s a genius when it comes to computers. Can break into damn near any system, so long as it’s connected to the internet.
The bastard who tortured my family was in my fucking house. Was in my son’s room. Only feet away from my wife.
As I slam the window down, rage radiates through me so strongly that my hands shake. When I turn away to leave the room, my eyes are drawn to the mirror above the chest of drawers. I walk over to look closer and blood roars through my ears when I see the scrawled words written in red on the mirror.
My hands broke him. His blood still coats my tongue. I was his ending, just as I shall be yours.
Before I can stop myself, my fist smashes against the mirror. I barely register glass slicing into my flesh, my mind too focused on the violent rage filling every cell in my body, threatening to consume me and push me over into a rampage.
In the black haze seeping into my mind, only the gentle hands on my back and the sweet scent of vanilla and roses pulls me back.
“Hunter.” Cat’s gasp jerks my gaze from the shattered mirror to find her standing in front of me, her head bent as she takes my bloodied fist gently into her hands. “What did you do?”
My eyes briefly lift to the ruined mirror, satisfied it’s destroyed enough that you can’t make out the words.
There’s no point in answering Cat’s question since it’s pretty obvious what happened.
I’m not sure if she’s in a hurry to doctor my hand or if she wants out of the room as soon as possible, but she tugs hard on my forearm until I follow behind her.
Before she can pull me toward our room, I stop her by planting my feet against the floor. “We’ll take care of this in a few minutes. The police are still downstairs.”
As she bites her bottom lip, her eyes fly back to my hand, where I’m certain blood drips onto the hardwood floor from the tips of my fingers. She pulls out a hand towel from the linen closet. Lifting my hand, I allow her to gently wrap the cloth around it.
The muscles in my jaw ache from clenching my teeth so hard as we come up to Eliana’s room. I stop and crack the door open. The window is closed, but a quick glance at the mirror on the wall above the vanity shows more writing. I don’t have time to look at it right now, but I’m sure it’s another message.
I blow out a huff of heated air and close the door. I’ll come back here later to see what was written.
Officers Spiel and Lanson are just leaving the kitchen when Cat and I get downstairs. I introduce them to my wife. As I expected, neither found anything in their walkthrough.
Spiel’s eyes fall on my wrapped hand, blood already seeping through the cloth. “What happened there?” he asks.
“I punched a mirror.” His eyebrows rise. “It kinda pisses a man off when someone breaks into or attempts to break into his house. Even more so when he and his wife are sleeping and are unaware.”
He jerks his chin up in acknowledgement and looks briefly at Cat, huddled against my side.
“Do you mind if we take a look upstairs?” Spiel asks.
“I would prefer you didn’t,” I tell him. Although I haven’t dealt much with Spiel, Trevor has mentioned him a few times, and he seems alright. There’s nothing here that could implicate me in a crime, but I don’t like cops nosing around in my shit. “The upstairs has already been cleared. You’ll find nothing up there, just like you found nothing down here.”
Lanson doesn’t like my answer, but there isn’t shit he can do about it.
Cat and I walk the officers to the front door, and Spiel hands me a card with his number. “Call me or the station if anything else happens.”
Nodding, I shove the card into my pocket, crumpling it. I’ll toss it in the trash later. As a kid growing up on the streets, you quickly learn you can’t depend on the police, which was reinforced by recent events. I take care of my own, have for years, and don’t plan to change now.
Once the door is closed behind them, Cat grabs my wrist and pulls me into the kitchen. She’s silent as she pushes me down into a chair, though her eyes look haunted.
When she approaches with the first aid kit we keep under the sink, I take it from her and set it on the table. With my hands on her waist, I pull her forward, so she’s straddling my lap with her legs on either side of my thighs.
“Are you okay?” I ask, cupping my uninjured hand against her cheek.
“Yes.” She lifts a shoulder. “No.” Her eyes drop from mine. “I don’t know.”
My chest aches with her uncertain response. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
