Page 3

Max

The ride back to my fathers’ house was quiet, aside from Craig’s drunk ramblings about how great of an athlete he was.

He slurred his words, stumbling over self-absorbed stories about his so-called glory days—as if being a semi-pro football player excused the horrors he had committed.

His voice was thick with alcohol, the kind of intoxication that made men like him reckless, sloppy, which made my job so much easier.

I let him talk, laughing when it was expected, tilting my head like I was also a little too drunk, perfectly playing the part.

He mistook my silence for awe, as they always did, they never did see the noose that tightening around their throats.

As we arrived at the house, he barely took in his surroundings.

He was too busy staring at me, pupils blown wide with the lust and arrogance.

I thanked the driver, Tony with a subtle nod.

I had never met Tony until after my dad’s death, the day I stood inside the basement, taking everything in, Tony appeared.

He had asked me if I had any questions, telling me that he understood how it was all probably a lot to take in.

I had been terrified of Tony when he first descended those basement stairs, yelling at him to get the fuck out, and who the hell did he think he was coming into my father’s house.

He had just smiled at me, the way now I’d grown so familiar with.

He’d explained how he was my dad’s driver, that he helped him with getting the bodies in here, and out of here.

He helped me connect the dots on who my father truly was, giving me reassuring words and pulling me into hugs each time new tears threatened to fall down my cheeks.

We had sat for hours on that cold basement floor, talking about how incredible my father was, how brave and strong.

Tony helped me feel lighter, he helped me view my father’s death in a whole new light, and he helped me become who I was today.

I’d told him that I wanted to continue my fathers work, I’ll never forget the look on his face when those words came out of my mouth.

The poor bastard looked like he was going to have a heart attack, the way he paced up and down, running his fingers through his scrappy grey hair.

He refused at first, but after telling him I would do it without or without his help, he reluctantly agreed, telling me that my father would come back and haunt his ass if he let me do this alone.

He had told me how my dad had gotten his victims from all over the country, that there was a network of men and women working together to bring these sick fucks to justice.

I didn’t want to work on such a large scale, so I told him my plan, on how I would get my own victims, and to my surprise, he told me it was a great idea.

So now, he picked me up no questions asked, and always told me to be safe, often adding in the ‘dial if you need me kid.’ Using cabs was too risky when bringing them here, I couldn’t risk anyone knowing I was the last one with them when they were flagged as missing.

I was always careful when leaving the club, often leaving a few steps ahead, and always climbing into the car in an area me and Tony knew no cameras hit.

After getting us here, Tony would always wait outside, waiting for the text to come and help strap them down, or that the job was done, and it was time to get rid of them.

So, when I text Tony to come collect me and Craig, he was there within five minutes, and that’s how we ended up here.

I pretended to fumble with my keys, letting my fingers brush against his chest as I leaned in to unlock the door.

He grinned at me, his teeth flashing in the dim porch light, completely unaware he was stepping into his final place as a living, breathing man.

I led him inside, locking the door behind us.

“This place is nice,”

he muttered, glancing around.

“A little old-fashioned, but cozy.”

I smiled, the irony of his words twisting deep in my gut.

If only he knew the history soaked into these walls, the whispers that still lingered in the air, the ghosts that never left.

He followed me into the living room, reaching for his belt.

“So, baby, where’s the bedroom?”

Jesus, he wasn’t even attempting foreplay, boring bastard.

I laughed softly, stepping closer whilst running my fingers down his arms.

“Not yet,”

I whispered, “I have a surprise for you first.”

His grin widened, “I love surprises.”

Oh, I doubt he would love this one very much.

I reached for his hand and led him toward the basement door, my heart steady and my mind clear, settling myself into the lethal calm I needed for nights like these.

The descent down the stairs was slow, each step echoing through the silence.

The moment his foot hit the concrete floor, I released his hand and took a step back, reaching for the chain hanging from the ceiling.

With a flick of my wrist, the single bulb illuminated the room in a harsh yellow glow.

Craigs eyes swept over the space, confusion flickering across his face.

The chair, the restraints, the neatly arranged tools lining the workbench.

He turned to me, brow furrowing.

“What the hell is this?”

I tilted my head, allowing the mask to slip away, the warmth in my smile vanishing, replaced with something colder, more sinister.

“Sit.”

I instructed.

He chuckled, but there was an edge to it now.

“You’re into some freaky shit, huh? Are you a filthy slut?”

I said nothing, just watched with animalistic intent, and then he saw it.

The files that were neatly on the metal shelves against the far wall.

Folders, names, dates—each one carefully recorded.

The confusion etched across his face was priceless.

My mouth kicked up at the corner, “No, I’m not a filthy slut Craig, but I am about to become your living nightmare.”

He spun to face me, his voice raising, “What the fuck—”

I moved quickly, years of practice making me efficient as the needle slid into his neck before he could react, his body seizing as the tranquilliser took hold.

He stumbled, grabbing at his throat, eyes wide with realisation.

“You—bitch—”

I watched as his body crumpled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud and silence followed.

I exhaled slowly, crouching beside him, brushing a lock of sweat-dampened hair from his forehead.

“Welcome to your final night, Craig.”

I murmured, my voice soft, almost tender.

“Let’s make it one to remember.”

When he woke, the confusion was instant.

His head lolled forward, groggy from the drug, and then the moment of clarity hit, his eyes widened, darting around, body jerking against the restraints.

Panic.

I always felt slightly smug at this part, the way they looked trying to piece things together, not believing a woman could put them in this predicament.

“What the fuck is this?”

His voice was hoarse, thick with leftover sedative.

He pulled hard against the leather cuffs, his breath growing ragged.

“Untie me, you crazy bitch!”

I didn’t respond at first.

Instead, I moved over toward my workbench, fingers trailing over my tools with deliberate slowness.

The anticipation, the fear, this part was everything.

Knowing I was eliciting the same fear in him that I knew his victim felt.

Something else twisted uncomfortably deep inside of me, just like it did every damn time, but I ignored it, pushing it down.

He swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his temple, “Please – look, I don’t know what you think I did, but—”

I cut him off with a sharp laugh, “Oh, Craig, I know exactly what you did.”

Swiping up a hammer I moved in closer, crouching so we were at eye level.

“The thing is Mr.

Smith, you don’t get to lie to me, and you sure as shit don’t get to pretend to be innocent.”

Standing straight, I quickly swung the hammer at his kneecap, hearing a distinct crunch before his scream pierced the air.

“You don’t get to do any of that, not when I have this.”

I dropped the hammer and grabbed his file from the shelf and held it up to his face, “Your entire history, the girls.

The ones who tried to fight you off, the ones you made sure couldn’t!” I spat.

His lips trembled.

“That’s not—”

I picked the hammer back up and swung it at his other knee.

The crunch was muffled beneath his scream, the sound reverberating all around me.

“Try again.”

The rush was there, the satisfaction of watching him crumble, but beneath it, something gnawed at me.

A subtle voice in the back of mind that whispered, he should be my fathers kill, not mine.

I tired my best to ignore it, because wether I liked it or not, this was my legacy now, and I wasn’t going to stop.

Craigs confidence cracked, just a little.

“You don’t have to do this.

We can talk; I have money.”

I looked up at him from the blowtorch I’d swept up from the bench.

Clicking it on, the small blue flame flickered in the dim basement light as I mumbled, “You held out longer than the last guy, I’ll give you that.”

I stepped closer, letting the heat from the flame brush against his skin, watching as he flinched, his body tense with the anticipation of pain.

Then, I lowered the torch toward the sensitive area between his legs.

His scream tore out of him, damn near blowing my ear drums as he began to piss himself.

I didn’t enjoy this part, not entirely.

But I needed the confession, I needed to do what my father had and bring these assholes down, so I could be the hero my father was to so many by clearing the world of these pieces of shit one man at a time.

Tony told me my father got his victims from all over Canada, that there was a large network of men and women that all worked together.

But often, the men were brought here because my father’s basement was the perfect place to torture and destroy these men, and the lake was the perfect dumping ground.

He never taped his confessions though, he did it silently, torturing them and then disposing of them like the trash that they were.

But as someone who had been abused, I would have done anything to get that apology from my ex-boyfriend, just to hear him say sorry, even if it was beaten out of him.

To hear him confess to everything he did to me, it wouldn’t have healed the wounds, but it would’ve given me a sense of peace.

That’s why I decided that killing them wasn’t enough, that I needed their confessions, so their victims could get some kind of closure.

It took ripping his god damn fingernail off to get that fucking confession and apology.