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I may have a permit, but that specific gun isn’t registered or traceable. Nor are the bullets.
If I were Markus, I would make this last a good long while. I would take him to a secondary location and make him suffer. But that kind of torture doesn’t appeal to me. The thought of whipping Sarah’s clit with a cane might make me rock hard, but why would I waste my time hurting someone I hate? I don’t see the point. I just need Sarah’s monster gone, and that can’t happen while he’s still breathing.
I follow the marked path to the back entrance and kneel, making a good use of my training. The flimsy lock is easy to pick, and I let myself into the dark house.
It only has two floors, and I’m not certain which is Brandon’s bedroom. I should have asked Sarah. But his car is out front, which means he’s here. If I have to shoot the parents too, so be it.
The deck leads to a small, surprisingly clean kitchen. No, not clean. Pristine. Someone here is a neat freak.
The floor is cheap, and squeakier than I’d like. I stick close to the walls, where it’s a little more even as I scale the length of the tiny space.
Past the kitchen, there’s a living room, almost as tidy and just as cheap. I keep going, crossing the poor excuse for a hallway, then opening the first room to the right.
The tiny room is little more than a closet. I note the boy band posters on the wall, the girly touches, the school bags close to a tiny desk with a ten-year-old laptop.
And there’s a small shape in the tween bed, sound asleep.
Shit.
Shit, shit,shit.
I hadn’t planned on another foster being here. I should have. Of course they’d get another kid. People tend to do that, either for the money or because they think they’re being good.
Lingering, I wonder if this is the room where Sarah used to live. Probably.
I shut the door softly, jaw tight.
I have to do this. For her as much as Sarah. Brandon preyed on Sarah from when she was very young—fourteen or fifteen. He likely will eventually target that girl too—if he hasn’t already started.
I make my way up the narrow stairs, and wince feeling one creak under my foot halfway through. I still, listening for signs of movement, but none come.
Someone’s snoring in the first bedroom. It’s much larger than the foster girl’s, and one look tells me it’s the parents’ even before I spot the older Clark man spread across the double bed like a jellyfish.
I don’t spot the missus, but plenty of people have separate bedrooms.
I close that door too, and resume my exploration.
There’s only one more room upstairs. I crack it open, and immediately still because while it’s dark, it’s clear by the sound alone that the person inside is conscious.
And rubbing one out.
It’s also a she, and definitely not Brandon.
Yet one glance inside makes me think that this is the room of a twenty-something guy. Simple but messier than most of this house, with darker colors and a faint musk.
The older woman on top of the bed is alone, and having fun in front of her laptop, watching porn. Who could blame her? She’s married to Richard Clark. I doubt that guy’s meeting her needs.
So, mama’s fucking herself on her son’s sheets. A little too kinky for my taste, but whatever floats her boat. WhereisBrandon?
Fuck. None of my intel suggested he’d be away. I had his work schedule checked. He’s due for a shift tomorrow morning.
Defeated, I make my way out of the house as discreetly as possible, and jog back to the motel.
My brother is still fucking his girlfriend when I sneak back in.
At least I don’t need to come on the bed sheet.
72
