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I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
I was dying.
FIFTEEN
All I could thinkabout was killing.
Murderous rage building inside me as we cleaned the bullet wound in Tatiana’s shoulder. At the sight of track marks on her hands and arms. The days of barfing and nausea, shakes and sweating. Of her begging me for more.
I’d finally had enough. Fuck her need to be strong, and fuck her suffering.
Fuck the vomit and diarrhea, the shaking, the sweating, the torturous agony. She looked like she was dying and I couldn’t handle it anymore.
I’d brought in a specialist who gave her a heavy sedative, then gave her something to flush her system of any remaining heroin.
Now, he said all I could do was wait.
And so I did.
Waited and seethed. Staring down at her as she slept like a motherfucking queen. Because, despite everything, all I could see was how fucking strong she was, and red red red at my need to kill the asshole that put her through this.
I hadn't slept since she'd called, except for a few hours on the floor next to her bed. Now that she was sleeping soundly, I had to get out.
My hands were shaking with my own craving; I’d sent a text to Rochon yesterday and he’d promptly hand-delivered a parcel this morning. And now, I was itching to open it.
After reaffirming that she would sleep through the coming night, I left her with Phee, the nurse.
In my bedroom, I opened the curtains, rubbing my hand over my face, exhausted as I stared out across the desert landscape. This was one of a few homes I owned, most of them close to the city. People didn’t know about this one, only my closest friends, and I came here only when I needed to get away from everything.
Rochon’s envelope was on the brown, leather sofa—feet away from me.
I tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the orange moon hovering over the desert landscape or the two coyotes lurking outside my property. Wondered if Avery would actually help us. I planned and schemed what I was going to do to the person responsible for Tatiana.
And that only made me think about the envelope.
Slumping in the soft supple leather sofa, I poured a liberal amount of whiskey, drank it, then poured another. Now I sipped, staring into the electric fireplace, rubbing my thumb across the tumbler glass.
Fuck it.I opened the envelope.
As usual, there was a report drawn up, with the name, photos, and everything you could ever want to know about a person, including this particular person's daily schedule and address. Except, this time, there was an additional envelope.
It was sealed, the word ‘please’scrawled on the outside in crayon.
My heart clenched.
I dumped out the contents: a handwritten letter, four crumpled dollar bills, and twenty-three cents.
I stared down at them, heart pounding, an uncontrollable shiver climbing up my spine.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I unfolded the letter. The handwriting was from two young girls, their signatures at the bottom, and the ink was splotched by tears. It took everything inside me not to crumple the paper in anger, but to force myself to read everysingleword.
Standing, I began to pace, the fire crackling in the background, and the note a crumpled ball in my fist.
I could do it tonight but I needed to get control over my emotions. I would have to, or I would make a mistake.
Making a decision, I pulled out my phone, transferring a hundred thousand into Rochon's account, who would take care of things in the aftermath. Then I threw the rest of the papers into my fireplace.