Page 14 of Killer Knows Best (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery #4)

14

EVIL

T he city lights of downtown Denver blur past me, streaking across the windshield like bloodstains smeared over glass. I tighten my grip on the wheel, feeling the weight of what I’ve done—a necessary weight. One that I carry for all the others who can’t or won’t.

I glance around at the throngs of girls barreling down the streets as if they were cattle.

Short skirts, thigh-high boots, arms linked with one another as they laugh into the night. I don’t know what they find so funny. They’re putting themselves in mortal danger.

The high heels, the makeup applied like spackle, the cheap jewelry adorning them like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

They cheapen themselves, these women. Every one of them is selling pieces of their souls, and for what? A few crumpled bills? A fleeting sense of power, the illusion that they’re in control?

Some of them are young, so young they’re practically children. But it’s a crime regardless of their age.

It makes me sick to think about how far these women have fallen. Like Lucifer falling from Heaven. Such a great height, and yet they have no idea what they’ve truly lost.

And it’s not just the money that’s the trouble here. It’s their very innocence that they barter with—like it’s nothing. Like it has no value. Like they have no value. They drag the men down with them, too, ruining families, shredding marriages, and leaving children fatherless.

And for what? You can’t tell me those women derive any pleasure from what they do. It’s strictly a monetary exchange.

The men, however, their so-called johns—for them, there’s just a moment of pleasure that fades before the sheets even cool. They risk far too much to be there, too. They should know better, but they’re far too animalistic. I know all too well about those animal instincts.

I roll down the window a notch and let the icy wind knife its way inside. The city smells like gasoline and sour trash as I pass through downtown, the same foul stench these women carry on them. No amount of perfume can cover it. Their desperation clings to them like a fog. I can still smell it on my hands, once I’m through with them. No matter how much I wash, the stench never goes away.

I glance at the passenger seat, where today’s newspaper lies folded neatly.

Another headline.

Another story that won’t tell the truth, not really.

They make it seem like these girls were just lost souls, victims of circumstance. But they weren’t. They had choices. They chose this. They opened the door to destruction, and I had no choice but to close it for them. One by one.

My pulse quickens at the memory of it—their wide eyes, the confusion turning to fear, the brief flicker of understanding right before I sent them away—away to a place where they can’t do any more harm. A better place. Clean and purified. I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m saving them from themselves, and I’m saving the men from their own weaknesses.

Those weak, pathetic creatures. They think with their bodies, not their minds. They throw away everything for a taste of something forbidden. They’re just as guilty as the women in this scenario. If it weren’t for them, for their sick desires, maybe the women wouldn’t be in such peril, there would be no commodity found in their bodies. Maybe they wouldn’t fall so far.

But they have fallen. All of them. And once they’ve fallen, there’s no going back. That’s why I have to do what I do. That’s why I can’t stop.

The weight of it presses down on me, but it’s a burden I’m willing to carry. I’ve seen what they become. I’ve seen what they leave in their wake. The lies, the broken vows, the shattered lives.

This world needs me.

It needs someone who’s not afraid to do what’s necessary, someone who understands that mercy isn’t always about letting people live. Sometimes, mercy is about stopping them before they can ruin anyone else.

I take a deep breath, feeling the cool night air seep in through the crack of my window.

The city is quiet now.

They don’t know, not yet. But soon. Soon, they’ll understand.

There’s no turning back. Not for me. Not for them.

And I’m just getting started.