Torture to Her Soul
Page 87
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say for what feels like the millionth time.
"I know," she says quietly. "I believe that now. Maybe I always believed it. But you do hurt others. I'm not an idiot. I know what you're capable of. I've seen it. And still, here I am, worrying about a dog and what happened to him. My mother, she's resilient. I worry about her, too, but I just... I don't know. How could I even begin to defend her? I'm not even sure what she's capable of. But the dog... he's done nothing wrong, and I worry about what's going to come of him in this all."
If I were a shrink, I'd say something about projection, about how's she's channeling her fears for herself into another living thing because she's too scared to face them, but I know she doesn't want to hear that.
I know, because the hospital made me talk to one of them years ago. I almost ripped his fucking spine out when he tried to diagnose me.
Personality disorder, my ass.
No, Karissa wants to talk about the goddamn dog, so I'll talk about it.
"Don't worry," I say. "Killer will be fine."
"You mean that?"
"Sure."
She smiles, like my words set her at ease, even though it makes no sense. How the hell could I know anything? She goes back to scribbling in her notebook, her eyes bouncing between it and the television as she takes notes.
My gaze turns back to my laptop, every muscle in my body seizing the moment I look at the screen. There it is, in the top right hand corner, the camera view of the alley beside Cobalt.
An old Jeep Waggoner.
I almost missed it, distracted by Karissa. But I know that car. I recognize it. Carmela drove one the entire time she was on the run, the plates fictitious, completely untraceable. I hit pause, isolating the frame and enlarging it. Bingo. I hit play again, running the feed at half the speed. One person in the car, but something else moves around in the backseat.
Killer.
"You know, he used to sleep with me at night," Karissa says across the room, still going on about it. "He was kind of my best friend. He could always tell when I was upset or lonely and made a point to keep me company. And yeah, I know it's ridiculous, but he's kind of the only one who's never lied to me."
"I've never lied to you."
"That's a damn lie if I've ever heard one," she grumbles. "You're the freaking king of deception."
"There's a difference between lying and misleading."
"Maybe to you there is, but not to me."
I jot down the plate number, not sure how much help it will be, before letting the feed run at regular speed. I go back to all the camera angles, watching as the car circles the club before she speeds away. She hits the end of the alley and takes a right, heading south through the city.
Sitting back in the chair, my gaze shifts once more to where Karissa sits, tapping her pen against the notebook. She's not watching the television anymore. She's looking at nothing, staring into space.
Yet again, I'm overcome with how beautiful she is. Physically, she's a combination of her parents, but I don't see them anymore when I look at her. I don't see Johnny's freckles or Carmela's face. I see what's inside. I see the innocence, even if she doesn't feel like it's there anymore… I see it, burning so strong that even sleeping with a man like me could never dim it.
Sighing, I close the laptop and grab my phone from where it lays on the desk. "I have to make a few calls."
She glances at me when I speak. "Do you want me to step out?"
"No," I say, standing up. "You keep doing whatever it is you're doing. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I use the side door and head out into the empty garage, making sure to shut the door behind me. I pace the cement, toeing a small oil stain in the middle of the garage, pondering what could remove it as I call a few connections. I put the word out that I'm looking for a Jeep Waggoner, giving them the license plate number in case it will help with verification.
"Fifty grand," I tell them, nearly cringing at my own offer. It's a hefty amount to pay as a reward, but I'm hoping it'll entice them to scrutinize every car they pass. "Nobody confronts her. Nobody touches her. Fifty grand for an address, and I'll handle the rest myself."
I put the word out to about a dozen heavy-hitters, people I've trusted in the past to keep things quiet while getting the job done. I hang up for the last time thirty minutes later and slip my phone in my pocket as I head inside, going straight for the laundry room to get some detergent.
Tide.
I scrub the stain in the garage for damn near an hour, on my hands and knees. I don't stop until every spec of it has faded, my hands scraped and bleeding from the concrete rubbing them raw. Afterward, I head back inside, going upstairs to shower, to wash away the remnants of the day.
Once I'm clean, I make my way back downstairs wearing only a pair of gray sweats. I hear noise in the kitchen, the banging of pots and pans.
Karissa's cooking.
I step in the doorway, pausing, and lean against the doorframe to watch her. She seems more confident now than before, moving around fluidly, those earbuds in her ears. The counter is covered with supplies, a pot of something boiling on the stove, a cast iron skillet sitting beside it.
She turns, her gaze briefly flickering my way as she heads for the fridge. She pulls out a stick of butter and sets it on the counter, turning my way once more, offering a small smile. It's cautious, wavering as she pulls the earbuds out and drapes them around her neck.
"I know," she says quietly. "I believe that now. Maybe I always believed it. But you do hurt others. I'm not an idiot. I know what you're capable of. I've seen it. And still, here I am, worrying about a dog and what happened to him. My mother, she's resilient. I worry about her, too, but I just... I don't know. How could I even begin to defend her? I'm not even sure what she's capable of. But the dog... he's done nothing wrong, and I worry about what's going to come of him in this all."
If I were a shrink, I'd say something about projection, about how's she's channeling her fears for herself into another living thing because she's too scared to face them, but I know she doesn't want to hear that.
I know, because the hospital made me talk to one of them years ago. I almost ripped his fucking spine out when he tried to diagnose me.
Personality disorder, my ass.
No, Karissa wants to talk about the goddamn dog, so I'll talk about it.
"Don't worry," I say. "Killer will be fine."
"You mean that?"
"Sure."
She smiles, like my words set her at ease, even though it makes no sense. How the hell could I know anything? She goes back to scribbling in her notebook, her eyes bouncing between it and the television as she takes notes.
My gaze turns back to my laptop, every muscle in my body seizing the moment I look at the screen. There it is, in the top right hand corner, the camera view of the alley beside Cobalt.
An old Jeep Waggoner.
I almost missed it, distracted by Karissa. But I know that car. I recognize it. Carmela drove one the entire time she was on the run, the plates fictitious, completely untraceable. I hit pause, isolating the frame and enlarging it. Bingo. I hit play again, running the feed at half the speed. One person in the car, but something else moves around in the backseat.
Killer.
"You know, he used to sleep with me at night," Karissa says across the room, still going on about it. "He was kind of my best friend. He could always tell when I was upset or lonely and made a point to keep me company. And yeah, I know it's ridiculous, but he's kind of the only one who's never lied to me."
"I've never lied to you."
"That's a damn lie if I've ever heard one," she grumbles. "You're the freaking king of deception."
"There's a difference between lying and misleading."
"Maybe to you there is, but not to me."
I jot down the plate number, not sure how much help it will be, before letting the feed run at regular speed. I go back to all the camera angles, watching as the car circles the club before she speeds away. She hits the end of the alley and takes a right, heading south through the city.
Sitting back in the chair, my gaze shifts once more to where Karissa sits, tapping her pen against the notebook. She's not watching the television anymore. She's looking at nothing, staring into space.
Yet again, I'm overcome with how beautiful she is. Physically, she's a combination of her parents, but I don't see them anymore when I look at her. I don't see Johnny's freckles or Carmela's face. I see what's inside. I see the innocence, even if she doesn't feel like it's there anymore… I see it, burning so strong that even sleeping with a man like me could never dim it.
Sighing, I close the laptop and grab my phone from where it lays on the desk. "I have to make a few calls."
She glances at me when I speak. "Do you want me to step out?"
"No," I say, standing up. "You keep doing whatever it is you're doing. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I use the side door and head out into the empty garage, making sure to shut the door behind me. I pace the cement, toeing a small oil stain in the middle of the garage, pondering what could remove it as I call a few connections. I put the word out that I'm looking for a Jeep Waggoner, giving them the license plate number in case it will help with verification.
"Fifty grand," I tell them, nearly cringing at my own offer. It's a hefty amount to pay as a reward, but I'm hoping it'll entice them to scrutinize every car they pass. "Nobody confronts her. Nobody touches her. Fifty grand for an address, and I'll handle the rest myself."
I put the word out to about a dozen heavy-hitters, people I've trusted in the past to keep things quiet while getting the job done. I hang up for the last time thirty minutes later and slip my phone in my pocket as I head inside, going straight for the laundry room to get some detergent.
Tide.
I scrub the stain in the garage for damn near an hour, on my hands and knees. I don't stop until every spec of it has faded, my hands scraped and bleeding from the concrete rubbing them raw. Afterward, I head back inside, going upstairs to shower, to wash away the remnants of the day.
Once I'm clean, I make my way back downstairs wearing only a pair of gray sweats. I hear noise in the kitchen, the banging of pots and pans.
Karissa's cooking.
I step in the doorway, pausing, and lean against the doorframe to watch her. She seems more confident now than before, moving around fluidly, those earbuds in her ears. The counter is covered with supplies, a pot of something boiling on the stove, a cast iron skillet sitting beside it.
She turns, her gaze briefly flickering my way as she heads for the fridge. She pulls out a stick of butter and sets it on the counter, turning my way once more, offering a small smile. It's cautious, wavering as she pulls the earbuds out and drapes them around her neck.
