Page 166 of Intense

I set it on the desk and open it. Jewelry. Men’s jewelry.

Silver and gold rings. Watches. Chains. At least fifteen pieces.

One watch freezes me cold. A vintage silver watch with emerald stones on the face and a marbled back. Rare. Worth a fortune.

I’ve seen it before. Complimented the old guy wearing it… before I took him into surgery.

My stomach knots.

I pull the drawer out further, revealing a slim black notebook. My gut tells me not to open it. My hand ignores me.

First page: a date from two years ago. A name I know.

The sex trafficker Stephanie saved. I remember cunts like that.

And in her handwriting:

He took something from me when I was eighteen, so I stole it back.

My chest tightens.

I flip through. More men. More dates. Short, brutal notes.

He paid to have sex with me when I was a teenager.

Is this a kill journal?

She understands me because she’s like me. No, because she’s been doing the same damn thing.

And her past aligns with mine in a way. I hate that for her.

I’m glad she kills these motherfuckers. Because if she didn’t, I fucking would for her.

Except she’s reckless enough to keep it written down.

I keep going until I hit the last entry, only days ago. The bastard from the club. He had his hands on her.

If she wasn’t there, I would have shot him in the head.

I go back one page. My blood runs cold.

That name. That date. That fucking expensive watch.

Right before I was arrested.

My hands are shaking when I pull out my phone. I call Drago, not caring it’s three in the morning.

“Finn?” His voice is thick with sleep.

“I need you to get the file from the Commissioner, tell me the exact name and date of the patient I was accused of murdering.”

I want to be sick.

“Uh… yeah, sure, one minute.”

“I don’t have a minute.”

I pace, jaw tight, rage boiling under my skin but kept on a leash. It’s the hurt that’s killing me, not the anger.