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He clenched his teeth.
“Having half of the city ready to catch my every misstep will prove to be a nuisance in my day-to-day business.”
“You poor thing. Maybe there’s a vigilante support group out there somewhere.”
“Quite the mouth on you.” He flashed a mischievous smirk.
“This is really about your ego, isn’t it? It must suck, having the city turn on you.”
His mouth tightened. “Not all of them, Ms. Payne.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Me? I was never on your side,” I lied matter-of-factly. “And I never will be.”
“I only kill bad men. Men who have hurt others, who have committed heinous crimes.”
I scoffed. “Taking the law into your own hands is unforgivable. We have a justice system for a reason.”
Screaming was too risky—it might provoke the Vigilante to attack me, but maybe I could keep him talking until my bodyguard came looking for me.
Which should be anytime now.
The Vigilante leaned forward. “And what about when that justice system fails? When criminals slip through its cracks, when they walk free because of loopholes or technicalities? What then? Do we just sit back and wait for them to hurt again? Do we let them continue to terrorize innocent people?”
The Vigilante reached into his pocket, pulled out a photo and held it in front of my face.
Based on its resolution, it looked to be a still shot of a video. A photo of Dominic killing the man he’d been found not guilty of murdering.
My stomach rolled. I studied the picture for a moment, trying to convince myself it was doctored. Photoshopped. Made up. But it appeared to confirm what my sixth sense had been telling me ever since that fateful day in the prison parking lot—that maybe I hadn’t known Dominic at all.
The Vigilante allowed me to stare at the picture in disbelief for several seconds before putting it back in his pocket and pulling out another.
“This man,” he said, “was responsible for the murder of a nineteen-year-old college girl who was majoring in nursing. He was acquitted on a technicality, and the victim’s family was left without justice. Do you honestly believe that he deserved to walk free?”
I studied the photo of a man walking through an intersection—a shot with a telephoto lens, by the looks of it.
“No,” I admitted quietly. “He didn’t.”
The Vigilante nodded and shoved the photo back into his pocket.
“That’s all I’m asking you to understand,” he said. “And,” he added, “to call off the dogs.”
But no matter how convincing his argument was, I could not get behind his methods. And it offended me that he thought holding me against my will like this, shoving the crime scene photos in my face, would fundamentally change my point of view.
“I agree men like that don’t deserve to walk free,” I said. “But murder is still murder, regardless of how you justify it.”
The Vigilante’s mouth tightened.
“Do you think I should have let Anthony live? So he could have killed you?”
Guilt etched at my insides. How disturbing to feel grateful he’d killed someone.
I didn’t want to tell him that this entire encounter had again rattled me—a defender of those accused of crimes, finding myself relating to this masked madman who took the law into his own hands. I didn’t want to tell him that it appeared we had something in common—a burning desire to see justice served. Or how being confused about my feelings fueled some of my animosity toward him. Because our methods were very different, and despite his righteous intentions, no one was above the law.
“You should turn yourself in.”
“I won’t be doing that, Ms. Payne.”
