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“You know exactly what I mean, Carina.”
A breath escapes her at the mention of her name, and she bites her bottom lip. I swallow a moan, not letting her see how much control she has over me. One of these days, I’ll let her see me. I will let the veil I keep in place fall. I’ll let her know how much control she has over me. But today is not that day.
“It was a long time ago,” she whispers, looking down at her feet. “And I’m dealing with it. They’re going to get what’s coming to them.”
Oh, are they?
It seems my timid little one has some spice inside, after all.
I smirk. “Oh, and what are you going to do to them, pray tell?” I ask.
Her hand is back on her hip. “I have my skills.”
“I don’t doubt it, little one.” I lean down, hovering over her lips and being in the moment with her; present and unwavering.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“It’s not time for you to know that, I’m afraid.”
* * *
Findingrecords on her was easy. Sifting through the only hospital server in Rochester was a breeze. There wasn’t even much of a fucking firewall. HIPPA my ass.
Carina Eder, born on September 21st, 1988. She was taken in on November 6th, 2006, for injuries. The injuries sustained were extensive. Lacerations to the face and hands, two missing fingernails, a broken rib and cheek bone. Also, a sexual assault kit was used to determine if she was taken advantage of. My hand grips the mouse so hard that it creaks under the pressure, plastic threatening to give way and break if I continue. It states the patient was non-verbal, rocking back and forth, and had some serious burns on her arms and legs. Police were called, and a report was made, but it looks like Carina never followed up.
I throw the mouse across the room, and it shatters. I’ve been so careless with her, so fucking careless and blind. She’s the way she is for a reason. But she should’ve been handled with fucking care, and here I come stalking her like a lunatic, manhandling her every fucking chance I got with a stiff cock to boot.
The only thing that’s driving me insane about this situation is that there were no reported fires in town around the time she popped up in the emergency department. It says she was a walk-in, and that she checked herself out of her own volition when they asked her to stay.
My Carina is a walking conundrum.
What town has a massive event and doesn’t have any evidence of it left behind?
Unless...
My fingers work the keys, caressing them as if I hadn’t thrown a fit only moments ago. The only influential family in town with resources to bury things is our very own Stanner family. Stanner Enterprises is based in Seattle, but it seems that the family itself wasn’t. I’d known that Emery Stanner went to high school with Carina when I looked up her new job, what I didn’t know is something happened to her in the past that left no trace.
If I were a betting man, my money would be laid on the Stanner head of household himself for there being no evidence of the fire, and I’d place a second bet that Ms. Carina Eder was part of the news he buried when he got his son out of trouble.
Too bad he’s already dead.
Or he’d be dangling off the end of my blade by nightfall.
“Mmm, but you’re not dead, are you, Emery Stanner. And I guarantee you won’t live long enough to beg for forgiveness.”
Or will I make him beg for her forgiveness, on bended knee, in front of her, with blood dripping from his wounds? Either way, he’ll pay for whatever it is he’s a part of. Because he’s the reason she shakes in fear when she’s touched. She’s afraid of something deeper that he was a part of. I can feel it in my bones he was involved.
Let the planning begin.
* * *
“The Westpoint House?Yeah, it burned down about...Oh, what was it, Marge, 06’?” the man at the counter of the local IGA recalls.
His wife looks up from her crossword puzzle, her thick, pink glasses are on the end of her nose, barely giving her any aid in seeing, unless she’s looking down.
“Yeah, it was 2006. I heard there was a girl in there with them boys, too! Heard their father covered it all up. I waited to see in the papers what happened, but the story never came, and that’s sayin’ a lot, ain’t it?” she asks me, but it’s rhetorical, it always is with gossipy types.
I’d known that the local rumor mill would gain me more insight into where the fire was, and what the town thought happened. And I was right. This is my first stop, and the Smiths have been a wealth of local knowledge.
