After a few moments of struggle, he goes limp. I run water into the huge tub in the master bathroom, then place a note and a black ballpoin
t pen on the little table by his BarcaLounger. Handwritten, but nobody will ever find that it wasn’t Rick Owen who wrote it, especially since his fingerprints are on the pen.
Fuck you! Fuck you all! I’m not going into a goddam cage. He’s my fucking son! MY FUCKING SON!
The paper tore a little over MY FUCKING SON! All in character. So much rage. So much blame. Never, ever sorry about anything he’s done.
That done, I heft the slumped body, take it to the tub and lay him there. The chemicals are undetectable, or will be soon. Nobody will know he’s been knocked out.
I hold the man’s kitchen knife and examine it in the better light of the bathroom. Still dull, but one works with what one must. Rick Owen’s skin is soft. Given sufficient force, the knife will slice it like a block of tofu.
Time to say goodbye, little cancer.
Chapter Seven
Angelika
Not even half an hour later, Tolyan walks out of the house. The streetlight hits his face just so. I squint. Is that a smile?
Yes, it is. The corners of his mouth are curved upward. If he exuded casual confidence when he walked in, now he reminds me of a lion after a quick and easy hunt.
God, why do I keep having the most disturbing imagery? He might’ve been visiting his friend. People totally do that.
But then he pulls off his gloves. People don’t put on gloves before visiting a friend.
Maybe the friend’s obsessive-compulsive and can’t stand it when people touch their things with their bare hands. It’s possible. My first and only roommate was like that. She was constantly washing her hands with antibacterial wipes and gel.
But she kept her part of the apartment meticulously clean. The state of disrepair this place has says the friend isn’t obsessive-compulsive enough to demand Tolyan wear gloves when he comes over.
Tolyan starts to climb into his car. This is my chance to talk to him, but I can’t move. My internal alarm is blaring danger. He’s no Roy, but that doesn’t mean…
He might not be the safe harbor I’ve been seeking. Sure, he drove away the flasher. And blocked a drunken guy from stumbling into me in the ballroom. He also fed me dinner when he realized I was hungry.
But ticking those things off doesn’t silence my alarm.
Roy is a consistent monster. He wanted to rape me, but failed. Got caught. Got kicked out of the family. Paid the price and now hates me for that. He blames me for not spreading my legs when he wanted it, for “acting like I’m too good for him.” He has one unchanging motto: I take what I want, no matter what.
But Tolyan… He seems all over the place. Nice, then mean—albeit not to me. Back and forth, back and forth.
Unpredictability is dangerous.
But is it more dangerous than Roy?
Indecision gnaws at me. If I’m going to talk to Tolyan, I have to do it now…
The lights on Tolyan’s car come on, and he’s off. The sedan makes a left turn and vanishes from my view. Cursing under my breath, I follow, but his car blends into the traffic and I lose him.
Shit! I smack my steering wheel. I didn’t make up my mind in time, so this is what I get.
Gave you plenty of chances, Angelika. The universe sounds particularly mocking this evening.
Fine. Tomorrow, then. I’m going to be out jogging, and hopefully I’ll run into him and his Dobermans again.
But the next morning, he and his dogs are nowhere to be seen. I jog slowly, then make an extra loop just to be sure. Don’t dogs have to be walked every day?
Thankfully, the flasher isn’t around either, but maybe he isn’t going to be coming back after what happened. Bet it isn’t every day he has a large dog snapping at his penis.
I jog until I can’t dither anymore without being late for my shift at the café. Maybe Tolyan’s sick. He could be sleeping in. Or maybe he has somebody else deal with his dogs today. It is Saturday, after all.