Page 27

I adjusted the brim of my cap and turned to Cameron. “He’s been dead for some years now.”

Her eyes whipped to mine. “I’m sorry.”

I waved away her sympathy. “Even though we spent a lot of time together, I wouldn’t say we were close. My old man was a hard bastard. I think he tried his best to raise me on his own, but home wasn’t a loving environment. And look how I turned out. I’m sure there are plenty of shrinks who would love to analyze my upbringing, figure out how I got so screwed up.”

I got down to work, hoping to avoid more questions. The air had lost its chill, so I removed my jacket and flannel shirt before starting up the chainsaw. I cut the tree trunk into foot-long sections, the tangy smell of sawn timber sharp in my nose. After each cut, I allowed myself a discreet glance at Cameron. Her eyes never left me as I worked.

I shut down the chainsaw and began loading the logs into the trailer. The hard work was still to come. I’d need to split and stack the timber when we got home, but I welcomed any task that would distract me from my house guest.

Cameron stood and limped toward the bike. “It’s peaceful out here, but so isolated. Don’t you get lonely?” She wriggled up onto the seat sitting side-saddle, her long legs stretching out in the sun.

“Nope. Best thing about this place is that there isn’t another soul around for miles. I’m not good with people, as you’ve probably figured out. And I’ve seen enough shitty human behavior to last me a lifetime. I’d rather not see any more than I have to.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to you? Why do you hate the world?”

I shook my head. “I don’t hate the world, just the people living in it.”

“Me included?” Fair question. I hadn’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat for her.

After dumping another log in the trailer, I turned to face her. “I don’t hate you, Cameron. I hate the situation you’ve been thrown into. I hate that there are people like Franky who think it’s acceptable to snuff out the life of an innocent woman so they don’t look weak. That’s all kinds of fucked up.”

“But you admit to killing people yourself. Aren’t you as bad as the rest of them?”

I shrugged. “Suppose so.”

Her brow pinched. “All the disappearances in Philly lately, the ones the police have no leads on. Was that you?”

“Most of them.” I didn’t watch her reaction. For some reason, seeing the disgust in her eyes bothered me.

Cameron remained silent while I continued with my work. Eventually, she drew her knees up to her chest and shivered as though caught by a sudden chill.

“Are they out here?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The ones you killed. Do you bury them out here in the woods? I’m sure no one would ever find them.” She looked around the landscape like maybe she’d find it littered with earthy mounds.

“I’d never desecrate this place with the likes of them. Trust me, they get the burial they deserve.” A watery grave far out at sea. Weighed down and providing a nice snack for the local marine life.

Cameron released her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “Is that how you justify it to yourself? That their crimes are so bad they should pay for it with their lives?”

She didn’t seem the sort to stick up for criminals, but I figured she was thinking about her brother. I cast her a sideways glance and moved to collect more logs. “If you knew what they’d done, maybe you’d agree with me. I’m not saying I’m a good person, and I’m not condoning what I do, but don’t fool yourself into thinking any of them were decent human beings.”

“I remember there was some big-shot lawyer who disappeared last year. Did you murder him?”

“Yep.” I picked a splinter out of my palm and kept working.

Her jaw dropped at my callous response. Not sure why. She knew what I was. Guessed she hadn’t expected such brutal honesty, but I thought it was best to earn her trust by telling the truth. And those bodies would never be found, so I didn’t think discussing it was a risk.

“White-collar crimes don’t deserve a death sentence,” she said, still looking shocked by my admission.

“Agreed. But what the media never reported was that he’d killed three prostitutes from Franky’s stable. I’d bet my life there were others, too. The sick fucker needed to hurt them to get off.” I caught the look of horror on her face and spared her the details. “Franky got tired of replacing his girls and ordered the hit. I slept fine afterward.”

Cameron swallowed with difficulty, perhaps wondering if this line of questioning was worth pursuing.

“What about that old man from New Jersey? The one under witness protection? Sure, he’d done time for murder, but he was, like, eighty-five. Why did you kill him in such a brutal way?”

I shook my head. “That one wasn’t mine. Remember how I told you Franky’s father and brother were murdered when he was a kid?”