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“Parker, I had no idea.”
“I know. And I know it was wrong of me to hold this against you. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me?”
I spring up from my position on the bed and move my leg over his body so I am now straddling him. I take his face into the palms of my hands, and I kiss him. I kiss him so hard that I am sure I can feel the walls around us begin to shake.
“You have nothing, and I mean nothing, Parker, to apologize for. It’s me. I should be groveling at your feet, begging you for forgiveness. I should have reached out once I was old enough. I knew you both played football. I should have just shown up to one of your games, but I didn’t. I was stupid and thought you both forgot about me.”
He stops me, grabs my hands, and holds them up to his lips, kissing them.
“I will never forget you. You are not someone who is easily forgotten.”
Ryan and Colin walk through the door, and I quickly remove myself from Parker's lap and stand beside the bed.
“I see someone is feeling better,” Colin says with a laugh.
I know Colin said that I didn’t have to worry about what happened between him and me and what happened between Parker and me, but Ryan’s face has all the blood draining from mine. He looks at me with such intensity that I feel as if all the skin is peeling off of my body.
Is it anger? Rage? He walks over to me, places his hand in mine, and squeezes tightly.
He leans over and whispers in my ear, “My turn. Here soon, Abigail Burns, you’re mine.” My mouth drops open.
thirty-three
unknown
Ineededtokeepa closer eye on her, my little canary. I did my background on her neighbors, and it turns out the house right next to her bedroom window lives two pieces of shit. I have been watching them, and what they are into makes even my skin crawl.
Two men masquerading as boys still living at home with Grandma-dearest.When I discovered that Randy and Jonah Wilbur worked for the Myer Group, I quickly put a plan into motion by posing as a home health aid for their dear declining Francis. The Myer Group takes in homeless pregnant runaway teens and young women, sometimes within the sex trade, others sent by their families to ‘get right’ after they get knocked up with a promise to adopt their children out to loving, worthy parents and give them, the girls, a new shot at life.
However, no one knows what they do besides the elite and the corrupt, and it just so happens I am part of both thanks to my family's wealth and their dealings within the dark market organ trading. All operations stopped when my parents died when I was twelve.
These sick-sons-of-bitches take these babies and extract adrenochrome, a drug all the elites love to get their hands on. It comes from a child’s pituitary gland when they are tortured, their oxidized fear hormone. These types of pedophiles are the lowest of the low, and I would love nothing more than to make them extinct. I won’t lie; I have encountered more than one of these types over the years. I find a way to make them disappear and never come back without my involvement ever being known.
But to have two live next to my little canary, that I will not tolerate a second longer, and they will be dealt with now. It will send a message, but sometimes a little chaos is a good thing when you live a life such as mine. I’ve kept a low profile, but maybe it’s time to expand my reach and make a new name for myself rather than the name my family left behind when they died. I have taken a liking to Francis. It's a shame her grandsons are the scum of the earth, and their choice in loyalty will now be her demise. Her health is only months away from a painful death, so in a way, I am giving her mercy.
I walk through the mahogany sliding doors into the living room. Francis sits up in her home hospital bed surrounded by beeping monitors and poles with dripping IVs. I remind myself as I sit down on the bed next to her, pretending to check her stats that this is a mercy killing and a way to make sure her two boys come home. She looks up at me from her crossword puzzle and asks with a shaky, raspy voice, “What's a word for a small songbird in the finch family?”
“Canary. Won’t you sing for me, Francis?” I stand above her on the side of the bed and adjust her pillows as she starts to sing Amazing Grace. I take a pillow from behind her and fluff it as I sing along with her.
“Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come,” I place the pillow above her face and hold my weight down. I keep singing over her muffled screams. “This grace that brought me safe thus far…” Her body movements slow to a stop as her chest lowers one last time, “And grace will lead me home.”
Randy Wilbur is tall and lanky. He is in his mid-twenties with a receding hairline and unkempt facial hair that’s splotchy, and he reeks of scotch and weed. His brother, Johan, is in his early thirties, bald, and the size of a semi with zero muscle mass. They sit on the couch across from me, mourning over their departed grandmother.
“Who gets the money? You know the old bag was rich,” Johan says to his brother, leaning over to pick up his warmed beer before him and taking a sip with his calloused lips.
“Hey, nurse, you know if she got a will? When are we getting our dues?” Randy shoots a look at his brother and then takes out his phone, and a smile crosses his face.
“I am not sure, as I am just her home nurse,” I say calmly as I take her monitors down next to the couch they are on.
“I swear, being forced to spend the last three years looking over that wrinkled bag of bones isn’t worth a fortune. I am going to just throw her body in the dump and then go fuck that sexy as fuck redhead neighbor bitch’s brains out before selling this old as shit house.” Jonah takes another sip of his beer, and right as he swallows, I slip behind them and stick two needles into both of their necks. And out like a light, they go to sleep.
I imagine waking up chained to a metal chair is quite disorientating to Jonah. Or maybe it's the fact that his brother is shackled down on a metal table that has his mouth dropping open. Either way, their deaths will be slow and painful.
While they were both out from the sedation drug, I hacked into their phones and what I fucking saw. I am grateful that Francis is dead because if she were ever to find out that her two dear grandsons were into fucking babies–infants–It would have killed her.
The torture they would have small children endure at their own hands, whipping them, fucking them, branding them, the list goes on. Here I was, thinking they were no more than henchmen. But to see them in the act of extraction, I now know that it is a fight I am going to take, and if I know anything about my little canary, it is a fight she will one day join.
“Look, man, if it’s money you want, we’re about to be rich. What do you want?” Randy asks, waking up from his forced slumber.
