Page 16

Chapter 15

A few days later, as I’m leaving work, my phone vibrates with a text from Bryce telling me to check my email. Bryce has some unique skills that are beyond anything I’ve ever learned, and while he’s been involved in some nefarious shit, my friend wouldn’t hurt a soul. He’s careful with my secrets, just as I am with his. We don’t judge each other. He’s been digging deeper into Candice Smith’s life, and I’ve been eager to hear from him.

I open the email on my phone while getting into my car.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath, my voice low, full of frustration.

I know his number by heart, so I grab my burner phone from the console and dial him.

He answers immediately. “I knew you wouldn’t be pleased with what I found.”

“That’s putting it mildly. A sexual predator and drug addict moved into their home weeks ago, and nobody’s raised an eyebrow?” My frustration over the lack of follow up with this case seriously makes me want to throw my fucking phone .

“We need to move faster. I’ll contact you as soon as I have a plan.”

“Okay, talk to you soon,” Bryce says, ending the call. I toss my burner back into the console.

Shifting into drive, I punch the gas and speed out of the parking lot.

The following morning, I hack into the Lake Falls Elementary School records and confirm that Ansley’s at school. She doesn’t need to see what’s about to happen. I throw on black jeans, a tank top, and grab a hoodie as I walk out the door.

I pull into the parking lot of the local dollar store, a few blocks from Candice’s apartment. Once inside, I grab a cart and begin shopping. There’s a working security camera at the front of the store but none in the back. I throw some paper towels and dish detergent into the cart, pushing it to the corner of the building. Only two employees are working: one at the register, the other assisting a customer. I discreetly check if anyone’s watching before slipping into the back room, bypassing the restrooms, and exiting through the rear door. With my hoodie pulled up, I walk toward the apartment.

The apartment building is in a dilapidated state that suggests minimal upkeep, just enough to meet basic state regulations. Several months ago, a gang shooting destroyed the security cameras, and they’ve never been repaired. Candice usually has a john or two around this time of day. Her neighbors are well aware of her activities and tend to avoid her. It’s no secret she’s slept with most of the married men in the apartment complex, gaining more than a few enemies. Her housemate, a registered sex offender, is fulfilling his weekly obligations with his parole officer and attending court-mandated classes.

I make it to her apartment door without encountering anyone along the way, and I fish out a pair of latex gloves. Trying the handle, I roll my eyes when I find it unlocked. This is almost too easy.

Stepping inside, I close the door gently behind me. The mess in the living room is immediately apparent—beer bottles and drug paraphernalia scattered across the coffee table, two lines of coke neatly cut and waiting on the glass end table, needles discarded on the floor. Aside from a worn teddy bear slouched on the couch, there’s nothing in the room that indicates a child lives here, my stomach churns in disgust. I have to save Ansley from this situation.

“Jim, is that you?” a female voice slurs from the bedroom. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Jim is one of her regulars, but he won’t be making it today. He’s been otherwise held up. An anonymous call to his probation officer prompted a drug screen, which he failed, and he’ll be spending a few weeks in county lock-up.

A tiny waif of a woman stumbles out of the bedroom looking at least two decades older than her thirty-one years. Her stringy red hair falls around her shoulders, and she wears a cheap negligee that leaves little to the imagination. The glaze in her eyes is heavy, and her arms bear the marks of repeated injections.

She stops short when she sees me. “Who the hell are you? ”

“Your worst nightmare,” I sneer, pulling my Glock from its holster and aiming it straight at her. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to be very quiet and do what I say.”

“Or what?” she challenges, though her fearful, uncertain eyes betray her bravado. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Sit down. We have some things to discuss.”

“Who are you?” She stumbles back, her legs bumping into the couch, and she sinks down onto it. “You a cop? Another do-gooder DCFS worker? What’s Ansley saying now? She’s a little lying bitch.”

I tilt my head as I stare down at her. “You know that’s not true.”

“Just look at the condition you’ve let her live in. She goes to school with dirty clothes and unwashed hair. Her behavior has been off lately, don’t you think?” I glare at her, my eyes burning with hatred. “I wonder if it has something to do with the pedophile you moved in here. Have you been leaving her alone with him? Did she tell you he was hurting her? Did you let him touch her?”

Her eyes shift away, and I feel a hot rush of rage. This woman’s depravity is beyond anything I could’ve imagined.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

She refuses to answer, and I press the gun to her forehead. Her eyes widen in alarm, and she stammers out a weak, unconvincing excuse: “He pays the rent on time.”

“He pays the rent on time?” My lip curls up in disgust. “You know what? Don’t say anything more. The time for talking is over. Say another fucking word, and I’ll blow your fucking head off. Grab the tourniquet,” I instruct.

Her gaze falls to it, and she hesitates before reaching for the tourniquet with trembling hands .

“Tie it around your arm.”

She does as I say and then looks at me. Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieve a syringe and hand it to her.

“What is that?” she whispers, fear creeping into her voice as the realization dawns on her.

“Exactly what you deserve,” I say coldly, plunging the needle into the most prominent vein I can find. Within seconds, her face turns white, her skin becomes cold and damp. She lets out a series of gurgling noises, and her pupils—tiny dots—plead with mine for a fleeting moment before fading into a haze. Her lips turn blue, and vomit spills from the corner of her mouth. Her body convulses violently, and I find a chilling satisfaction as the light slowly seeps from her eyes. Her body slackens and slumps to the side.

A normal person might feel remorse, maybe even worry about the consequences of getting caught, but not me. I don’t feel any of that. Instead, I feel an eerie sense of peace. The fear or guilt that should be there? It’s nowhere to be found. And now there is one less monster in the world. Candice may not have set out to harm her child, but she didn’t protect her, and she certainly didn’t save her. Ansley will be better off without her.

Grabbing up her phone, I set it to speaker, dial 9-1-1, and place it next to her hand.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator responds, clearly bored.

“I think I took too much,” I whisper, trying to disguise my voice.

The operator hastily assures me that paramedics are on their way. I remove the tourniquet, leaving the syringe hanging limply from her arm. There’s no need for any further countermeasures. The police will discover a drug addict who overdosed on fentanyl-laced drugs. I holster my gun and head for the door, listening for any sounds in the hallway. It’s silent, and I slip out of the complex unnoticed.

Outside, I discard the gloves in a dumpster behind the dollar store. I walk into the ladies' restroom, remove my hoodie, pull my hair out of the ponytail, and touch up my lipstick. After flushing the toilet for effect, I walk out, and head back to my cart.

Spotting an employee walking toward me, I clutch my stomach and twist my face into a grimace of pain.

“I’m so sorry. It’s that time of the month, and something didn’t settle right in my stomach. I wouldn't use the restroom just yet,” I say apologetically.

With a sympathetic glance, she directs me to the Midol counter. After grabbing a box, I browse the tampon section, add a few more items to my cart, and head to checkout.

Two minutes later, I’m walking out with my two bags. An ambulance rushes by with its flashing lights and blaring sirens. Casually, I load my things into the backseat and climb into the car. Those lights won’t be needed for much longer. By the time Ansley gets off the school bus, her mother’s body will be long gone. I had Bryce take a look into her maternal grandmother and aunt, who live in Alabama. They’ll no doubt take her in and treat her very well.

If anyone bothers to look at the security footage, they’ll only see me entering and leaving. How could anyone possibly suspect me?