“If you don’t know the answer to that then you’re more stupid than you look.?
?
Not wanting to hear his excuses and pleas, and with my time running out, I yank on the rope hard, ready for this to be done and over with. His feet lift from the ground, and his face turns beet red. He bucks and twists, frantically grabbing at the rope cutting off his oxygen. It’s useless, and from the terrified look in his eyes, he knows it.
Beads of sweat break out on my forehead, and my side screams at me as the rope tries to tug from my gloved hands. Turning with the rope over my shoulder, I slowly walk over to the banister, lifting Jon higher and higher. The resistance in the rope lessens as Jon’s struggles become weaker. I tie it around the banister and turn to face him. His face is purple now, his eyes nearly popping out of his head as he gently sways. Satisfaction soars through me, knowing he won’t ever hurt another innocent person. A normal person would feel remorse, horror, and disgust for taking another’s life. I never do. Not when I’m stopping another helpless victim from being hurt.
I pull my phone from my pocket and snap several pictures. I attach them in an email to myself before deleting them. Fuck if I want them on my phone if someone were to get a hold of it somehow.
I don’t waste any time walking back through the house, stopping by a side table and grabbing a manila envelope I spotted there earlier, and out the back door. My side feels like it’s on fire, but I stiffen my back, regulate my breathing, and keep my steps steady but unhurried as I walk back to my car.
Once I’m inside, the magazine and printed picture get put in the envelope I snagged from inside. I write the address of a local news station on the front and add Jon’s uncle’s address as the return address. The bastard’s dead, and some will think it tragic the way he went. People deserve to know the kind of psycho he was. If given to the police, there’s a chance his uncle would be able to sweep this under the rug. News stations are ruthless and love a good story. It’ll be all over town, and also force the police to investigate further and not let Quinn cover it up.
I yank off my jacket and put it in the black trash bag I’d stashed under the front seat. I stop at a store and buy several stamps before dropping the envelope off at a random mailbox. After, the gloves get put in the trash bag and it gets dumped in a dumpster across town.
Pulling my car to a stop at the car rental return at the airport, I have two and a half hours left before my flight takes off. In line at TSA security check, I shoot JW a message.
Me: It’s done. Be home in a few hours.
I don’t get a response, but I don’t need one. I know he got my message.
Stopping by one of the bars, I order two shots of whiskey to dull the pain. It does the trick within minutes.
I slump down in a seat at my gate between a sleeping teenager with earbuds in his ears and an older gentleman reading a James Patterson book.
I’m fucking tired and worn out, plus there’s a suspicious pain in my chest. It’s imaginary or psychological, or whatever in the fuck doctors call it when someone’s in pain from heartache.
I’m going home, but a large chunk of me will stay in Kentucky until the people in possession of it finally come home too.
Chapter Thirteen
JUDGE
I WIPE MY MOUTH WITH MY napkin and toss it on my plate. My appetite hasn’t been worth shit lately, and it shows in the leftover food on my plate. Some would say my mood hasn’t been much better. The only reason I’m here is because JW threatened to castrate me if I didn’t lighten up and apologize to Eden. It didn’t go over well when I snapped at her yesterday after she asked me how I was doing.
Standing from the table, I grab my plate to take to the kitchen. Noticing Layla’s plate is empty, I grab hers as well.
“Was the meatloaf not good?” Eden asks across from me.
I offer the best smile I can, which is probably more a grimace. “It was fine, Eden. I had a big lunch.”
JW snorts and rolls his eyes. The fucker knows I can put away a shit ton more food than was on my plate. He also knows I only ate half of my BLT from lunch.
Glaring at JW as I pass by him, I take the plates to the kitchen, scrape my leftovers in the trash, and set to washing the dishes.
I’m drying the last plate when I feel arms wrap around my middle. I stiffen for a split second, then force myself to relax. Layla’s soft scent drifts around me.
She rests her chin on the center of my back and asks gently, “You okay?”
Setting the plate down on the counter, I turn to face her. I don’t wrap my arms around her or tug her closer, something I would have done in the past. Instead, she steps forward and leans her weight against me.
I’ve always found Layla exotically beautiful, funny, and down-to-earth. Her personality is the opposite of mine. She brings fun and lightheartedness to our relationship. Each of my women gives me something separately. My life has been full since we began our arrangement, and I’ve been more than satisfied.
Lately though, things have been dull. I’ve been restless and irritable. I’ve purposely stayed away from Layla, Jamie, and Gillian as much as I could. I haven’t told them our arrangement is over. The thought makes me feel like a bastard. I know they’ll understand, but I also know deep down, it’ll hurt them. That’s something I never wanted to do. Even if things don’t work out between Ellie and me, I won’t flaunt the women in front of her or Maisy. I’ve never cared about what other people have thought before, but with Ellie and Maisy, I do. I don’t want Ellie to look at me with disgust, especially because there was nothing disgusting about my relationship with my women.
My thoughts drift to Jenny, and the pain I always feel when I do, clutches my stomach. She always wanted children, and I always refused. Would she be happy about Maisy, or would she feel resentment toward Ellie for having something she always wanted? I toss that thought away. Jenny would have been ecstatic and would have spoiled my daughter rotten. She would’ve befriended Ellie like she did everyone and talked her way into being Maisy’s godmother. Age difference aside, she would have been Maisy’s best friend.
“Judge?”