Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
There was a pair of shoes by the door and I glanced at them, picturing unlacing one of the laces and using it to strangle her. I could tie her to a chair the way Mother had done to Father and Mr. Patches. I could squeeze her neck slowly, or I could do it fast. I could do it in any way I chose. I saw it again in my mind’s eye. Just pulling and pulling until her life drained out and she finally shut the fuck up. It would have been so easy.
She was disgusting and repulsive and she shouldn’t have touched me like she had. No one was ever going to touch me without my permission ever again.
I wound my arm back and bounced another checker off her head, hard enough to leave a mark, and she fell back to the floor, reaching up to feel the wound and letting out a sob as tears sprang from her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.
Her tears brought me back to myself, and I hesitated before finally tossing the rest of the checkers aside, my chest rising and falling harshly as I attempted to catch my breath. I watched her for another minute, spread-eagled on the floor, her tiny nipples pointed at the ceiling as she muttered and cried, and I only felt pity for her.
I turned, and I left her there before walking to my car and driving home. When I got inside my house, I poured myself a cold glass of lemonade and then stood at the counter, taking big, thirsty gulps. I was shaky, my muscles sore from having held them tightly for so many hours. I pictured Dolly lying helpless and wasted on the floor and felt a small measure of shame, but there was also satisfaction. I’d handled her myself. I’d been my own protector.
Dolly didn’t show up at her job the next day, or the next. I went home each night, expecting the police to show up at my door, lying in my bed unable to sleep as I memorized the lies I would tell. When Dolly finally returned, she looked mostly back to normal, except for a small red mark on her forehead. I tensed when she walked my way, my pulse jumping, but she gave me a small, embarrassed smile, her eyes shifting away as she said, “I want to apologize for whatever I said or did the other night. I get a little . . . out of hand when I’ve had a lot to drink.” She met my gaze, her eyes imploring as though she wanted me to reassure her that she hadn’t been that bad or maybe clue her in to what she didn’t remember but maybe suspected. Did she have flashes of me bouncing checkers off her forehead? Was she having trouble making that slip of memory align with who she believed me to be?
But I just stared and finally gave her the barest of smiles. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” I said, walking away. I had an extra spring in my step, however. I was off the hook after days of worrying relentlessly. But I still remembered the feeling of confidence—of power—as I stood above her, making her pay for what she’d done, even if that payment was small and perhaps less than she deserved. Yes, I’d taken care of myself for the first time in my life.
Maybe Mother knew. Perhaps she thought I didn’t need her at all anymore. Maybe it’s why she left. And maybe it’s why I let her go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sienna tapped her fingers on her desk, glancing at the latest copy of Danny Boy’s writing about Dolly as the phone rang at her ear.
“Professor Vitucci,” came the smooth voice on the other end of the line.
“Professor, hi. This is Sienna Walker, one of the detectives with the Reno PD.”
“Yes, hello, Detective Walker. I saw the news this morning. I hate that I was right about the killer striking again, and sooner rather than later.”
“Me too. I knew it was only a matter of time, though. It’s part of what makes this job so hard.”
“The feeling of powerlessness. I understand.” His voice over the phone was melodic, and she felt immediately at ease. He was a professor of criminology, but she wondered if he had ever worked more hands-on in law enforcement and had to assume he had.
“Yes. I have a couple questions, and I was hoping you had a minute or two to spare?”
“Of course.” She heard a door close. “Go ahead.”
“This most recent victim doesn’t seem to have any form of bad parenting behavior in his past,” she said, referring to Harry Lockheed. “In fact, if anything, the opposite. He was a family man, a coach, upstanding in every way we were able to verify so far. And so my question is, Can our killer still be mission oriented but be focused on a different mission than the one we originally outlined?”