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He’s a killer at the poker table when he plays. He never gives tells because he feels nothing whether he wins or loses. The government came to him three years ago and tried to recruit him into intelligence. His distinct personality traits are perfect for being an investigator. He’s able to distance himself from what he’s working on as if it holds no bearing on his life.
I wish I could be like him. Most people would say that I am. Fuck knows that everyone at Saintswood knows me as my father’s son. Mr. I Feel Nothing and Don’t Give A Fuck. What they fail to comprehend is that I used to feel. A lot. I felt too much. Too much love for Chelsie. Too much joy for life.
My poetry is the only place where I can be myself. That’s why I was so hard on Olivia after she didn’t text me that she loved my poem. I poured my heart into that piece of art. It’s as good as any Monet or Picasso at the Louvre. She needs to learn that I’m a heartbroken genius who went through a ton of shit that molded me into a monster. Under my mask of ice, a brook of feeling still exists. However, it’s all but frozen. And I have zero intention of letting Olivia melt it.
Olivia was a fucking two-faced bitch because she lied about liking my poem. I lost control when I saw her. What people don’t understand is that I hold myself back around her. My fury could manifest in stronger ways. I could be so much worse. Hurt her so much worse.
The fantasies that swirl through my mind after I head to bed at night about Olivia are depraved. Devoid of human compassion. I chase her through unlit streets. She knows someone’s following her but not me. At last, I catch my prey. I pin her to the ground, rip her clothes off, and bury my knife in her cherry. Not my cock. My knife. I watch as the blood spurts out and splatters onto the street. I slash every inch of her body and then fuck the holes. She’s going to die exactly like Chelsie. I’ll love every second of it.
I can’t come to my father with these thoughts. He wouldn’t give me support either way. He’d tell me to see a professional like he did after Chelsie and then leave me to my insanity. My fantasies. My demons.
I want Olivia to feel what I feel. Fuck knows why she’s the one who has to go through this, but it can’t be anyone else. Something drew me to her at that frat party like a supersonic magnet. Our particles were meant for each other’s. Every subatomic particle that comprises her DNA screams out to mine. Begs to be ripped apart by my cock. My blade. My fingers. My fists. My teeth.
"I’ll ask you one more fucking time if you know anything."
My father is analyzing his investment portfolio. As it turned out, my father had insured Chelsie’s life long before she passed away. He knew that a girl as beautiful and smart as she would be a great financial loss to the family if something happened to her. He had a policy that was worth half a billion dollars. When we received her death certificate, he cashed in the policy. The insurance company fought to prevent cutting his check tooth and nail. They hired the best lawyers, drafted the best agreements, bribed the judge. None of it worked. The firm that took our case beat them in court.
He started a hedge fund with the money that currently has over ten billion dollars in assets under management. He caters to institutions that look for stable and steady returns on their money without tremendous upside. That’s why he’s beaten the market every year for a decade. His investors don't pull their money in down years because they know that the losses are only temporary. My father pays out dividends every quarter and keeps their concerns mollified.
Taking on unnecessary risk isn’t his specialty. He doesn’t look for growth firms that have the potential to shoot to the moon. He only wants companies that have what value investors call moats. Companies that attract consumers for reasons that aren’t based on a value proposition. He bought shares in a marijuana company not because he knew anything about the weed industry but because this company’s followers don't buy other products that are superior. Everything in the investment world boils down to the strength of brands. The brand separates the wheat from the chaff.
My father doesn’t look up. "I don't have time for your questions."
He never does. That’s why it cuts so deep every time I approach him. It’s like he doesn’t care that Chelsie is dead or that she was murdered by a sicko in the most sadistic way. I try to make him care and lift him out of this facade of emotional emptiness he puts on. It’s taken a long time to realize that it’s not a facade. This is who he is. He doesn’t care about Chelsie. He doesn’t care about anything. He especially doesn’t give a fuck about me.
"Tell me what the fuck you know."
My father doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t quit analyzing his fund’s quarterly performance. His beady eyes lock on the screen as they pass over every data point. He’s perfect for this work to be honest. He never seems to work at it and he never lets the markets stress him out.
When I was a boy, he took me to Wall Street to see the traders work. He didn’t manage his own fund yet because he was a senior analyst at the top institutional equity firm in Manhattan. I couldn’t believe how stressed out the traders appeared. They were one bad deal away from leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge. My father informed me that these men went to Atlantic City on weekends to blow their salaries on roulette and prostitutes. My father never did that. He was a stone-cold psychopath. An apex predator who dominated his sector without expending the slightest bit of energy. Whereas others couldn’t handle the pressure, my father felt no pressure at all. The chaos of Wall Street mattered as much to him as other peoples’ opinions. He never told people to go fuck themselves. He didn’t care about anything. Or anyone.
He ticks his eyes up. "You’re out of Saintswood if you tell me that you’ve hired another investigator."
When I hired my seventh investigator a few years back, my father blew the only gasket I’d ever seen him possess. He informed me that the time I spent tracking down Chelsie’s attacker was a waste. I immediately suspected him but as it so happened, he had an alibi. He was working while she vanished. Of course he fucking was. Security camera footage at his office cooperated his account.
When girls are murdered, those closest to them are primary suspects. A young girl is as unlikely to be taken by a stranger off the street as a quality New York hot dog is to be found at a crepe stand in Paris. It’s always the father or stepbrother. When a wife is murdered, put all your chips on the husband. He was sick of her shit and couldn’t take it anymore. One day, he grabbed the semi-automatic he kept in the basement storage closet and stared over her bed while she slept. He loaded it with fresh bullets and pulled the trigger.Bam.The bitch died and now he has a body to account for. That’s why the cops looked into my father first. They found nothing.
"I didn’t hire another investigator." I’m lying through my teeth.
My father narrows his eyes. He’s studying me. This is what he’s learned to do ever since starting his fund. He analyzes me like I’m a competitor he wants to murder. "I never speak to you like this, but I’ll put you six feet under with your fucking sister if you keep wasting time on this bullshit. Grass always grows and children die. That’s Victor Hugo who you’re too fucking stupid to read, you dumbass little cunt. Shit happens in this fucking life. Murderers get let out of prison early. Geniuses with novels to write step into a crosswalk and get hit by a runaway car. Children are snatched off the street and cut to pieces. That’s what fucking happened to your sister. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. One second, she was here. You were eating breakfast with her. Hours later, she was gone. Dead. She suffered. She bled out. She was raped. She was assaulted. There’s nothing you can fucking do about it. You can’t go back in time and rescue her. She’s not coming back. Endlessly searching for her assaulter won’t change the past."
I scream in my father’s face. "You’re her fucking father. You should care."
"Iwasher father." He types something on his laptop. "She’s not here anymore. Mind your tense."
Patricide is an unforgivable crime. At this moment, I don't give a fuck if I’m forgiven. My eyes flit around the kitchen for a knife. I envision myself stabbing my father a dozen times to make him pay for being so blasé.
"You’re a psychopath."
"You’re the psychopath." My father finally looks me in the eye. "I can tell you’re thinking about killing me right now. I see it in your eyes. Do it. See where it gets you. I regret ever having you."
He goes back to his work like he hasn’t said anything at all.
I settle into the seat across from him. "All I want is to know what happened. That’s it."
I can’t believe I’m continuing this goddamn conversation. It’s a waste of my fucking night. The only thing I want to do right now is march away from him and head to the Porsche he bought me sophomore year at Saintswood. I’ll drive off into the night. Head straight to the penthouse, park my Porsche, and fuck Olivia in the ass until she gives me her virginity. It’s not how I want to snatch it from her, but my rage leaves me with no choice. There will be no roses. There will only be coldness.
"Your sister shouldn’t have worn that skirt to school. I told her not to. She learned the hard way."
