Page 6 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Wyatt

I stare at the screen, my mind blank. My target is dead before I even touched him. That’s a fucking first.

Craig Denver is a common name, so I dig deeper into the police reports to confirm that the victim of last night’s drug deal gone wrong truly is my Craig Denver.

The body hasn’t been officially identified, but the wallet found on the victim contained several IDs with his name and photograph.

After all, he’s a professional football player.

While he’s not exactly a national superstar, locals do know him and several members of the first response team recognized him.

Craig Denver truly is dead. What the actual fuck?

I palm the ampule of clenbuterol in my pocket again, just to reassure myself it’s still there.

I haven’t given it to Craig. It was supposed to look like he OD’d on unsanctioned doping and got a heart attack.

Killing him and ruining his reputation at once.

My client hadn’t exactly asked for that, but I thought it would be a nice touch.

Now, I’m left utterly stupefied, which hasn’t happened to me in years.

Decades. Fuck, I’ve never been so confused in my life!

Especially because I know the “drug deal gone wrong” is utter bullshit.

If there was one positive thing about that bastard, it was that he didn’t do drugs.

Even the detective on the case noted it in her preliminary observations.

Someone murdered my target and made it look like Craig was buying drugs and that’s…

fucking brilliant, if you ask me. I would have chosen a different approach but I can appreciate the intent.

Except, what does it mean for my contract?

Did Washington hire someone else along with me to make sure Denver really died?

Hiring two professionals to kill one measly football player seems like overkill, even for someone as rich and as angry as Washington, but I can’t rule it out.

What else could have happened? What are the chances that Craig pissed off someone else enough to get himself killed at the exact same time there was a contract on his head?

And at the exact same time he beat up his girlfriend, my brain supplies.

I briefly indulge the theory of Amy hiring someone to take care of her abuser but dismiss it.

She’s not that type of person, nor does she have the connections.

Or the money. She can barely afford her rent and hitmen are expensive. I should know.

It must have been Washington, and it makes me irrationally angry. I’ve never left a job unfinished, and my reputation in the community is stellar. Why would he hire someone else after I’ve accepted the contract? I didn’t piss him off that much, did I?

As if on cue, my phone rings. “Mr. Washington?”

Before I can give him a piece of my mind, he says, “I just heard the news. Good job. The money is on the way.”

That doesn’t sound like he’s telling me I won’t get paid because another hitman got to the target first. I don’t even care about the money. It’s about principle. Two hitmen hunting the same target might make a good movie plot, but in reality, it’s dangerous and gets messy. We don’t play along well.

I don’t beat around the bush. “Did you offer the reward to someone else aside from me? ”

“What? Of course not.” Washington scoffs. “Dealing with one fucking psychopath is disgusting enough. You have your money. I never want to hear from you again.”

“Leave a review on the dark web,” I tease somewhat absently. Washington ends the call without responding, leaving me even more confused than before. Normally, I’d say he was lying, but why would he lie? And if he didn’t hire another hitman, then who the fuck killed Craig Denver?

Amy

Like a frightened child, I pull the blanket over my head. It also helps to muffle the conversation between Kayla and detective Brown.

There’s a detective in my apartment and normally, that would make me incredibly nervous, even though I’ve never broken the law in my life. Now, that fear is dulled. The thirst I felt moments ago is gone. Even the incessant throbbing in my head feels a mile away now, as if I were outside my body.

I think I’m in shock. That’s what they always say on TV when something terrible happens and people just sit and stare into an empty corner, don’t they?

Then someone comes to the person in shock and wraps them in a blanket and hands them a hot drink and hugs them and— And then everything gets better.

I wrap my blanket tighter around my shoulders. Nothing gets better.

The detective’s words ring through my head like a death knell. “He passed away.” That means died, even someone as stupid as me knows that.

Craig died last night. While I was in the hospital getting an X-ray, he was dying on a filthy sidewalk somewhere. A drug deal gone wrong, the detective said. Laughable. Craig never did drugs .

He’d also never hit you , an angry voice in the back of my head whispers. It’s not wrong, but… No. I don’t believe it. So why else would Craig be there?

Brown’s words feel like they’re on a constant rewind.

“I’m sorry to inform you…” Why is she sorry?

It’s not like she knew Craig. Or perhaps she was his fan.

Perhaps she’s determined to charge someone with Craig’s murder.

And who better than a girlfriend with a black eye?

And I said—oh my god! I said I wished he never came back!

That makes me a suspect, right? Even if it’s not true?

Except, it is a little true. I wanted Craig back. I still want Craig back, but I want the nice Craig. The one who smiled and joked and spent his time with me and even complimented my baking sometimes. Not the one who yelled at me and called me ugly and accused me of cheating and—

Wincing, I touch my swollen face. I don’t want that Craig back. What he did hurt, and not just on the physical level. The things he said, they made me think that what we had wasn’t real. That my Craig wasn’t real. I don’t want to think about that, but what else is there to think about?

“I’m sorry to inform you, but he passed away.” Died. He died and left me and now I have no one. Kayla is here now, but she has a new job hundreds of miles away. She’d stay if I asked, but I won’t. She shouldn’t throw her life away for a failure like me.

I’ll be all alone again.

I shudder as I imagine the deafening quiet as I return home from work. There will be no one to talk to about my day, no one to complain about the disgusting cake I have to serve at the cafe even though I could bake a much better one.

Not that Craig was ever here to listen to my rambling, but I could at least hope he’d visit and then we’d talk and the crushing silence would disappear for a couple of hours.

And he’d touch me. Not just for sex, because I don’t really like sex that much, but sometimes he’d hug me or hold my hand and that was the best part of my week .

But now he’s gone, passed away , and what kind of terrible girlfriend am I that I’m thinking about myself when the man I loved is dead?

He’ll never play football again or hit the bars with his friends, or do any of the other things he loved but never let me be a part of, because I wasn’t clever enough or pretty enough to bring along.

I hate that my thoughts are spiraling in a more and more selfish direction. Me, me, me. All I’m thinking about is how this affects me, but it’s Craig who’s dead.

His family. Oh my god, his family is going to be devastated. His parents… I don’t really know them because they never liked me, but Craig was their only child and he passed away and they’ll be devastated and what am I going to do?!

I’m back to me, me, me again and I hate myself for it.

And I hate myself even more for that sliver of relief that passes through me every time the detective’s voice— ”he passed away” —rings in my head.

Relief, because Craig is dead and he won’t hurt me again.

Even if it makes me the most deplorable person on the planet, I can’t shut this feeling out.

It’s there, poisoning my mind. Every time my guilt squashes it, it softens for a while, then comes back with a vengeance.

Craig is not coming back. He won’t hit me again.

Yell at me again. He won’t tell me not to talk to Kayla again.

He won’t say the sweet-sounding, poison-laced words to me anymore, words that sound like praise but hurt deep inside.

He won’t say any words to anyone, because he’s dead, and why am I relieved? I loved him!

You also hated him, the voice supplies. I want to argue with it, but arguing with yourself is a sure sign of madness.

On TV, they always put crazy people in straightjackets and ship them off to white padded rooms. I don’t like white walls.

And my nose always itches. How would I scratch it in a straightjacket?

“I’m sorry to inform you—”

You hated him .

“Shut up!” I shout, slapping my hands over my ears, as if that could silence the voices. It doesn’t.

The bed dips and I’m wrapped in a tight hug. “Shh,” an all too familiar voice whispers. Kayla pulls the blanket off my head and looks at me with teary eyes. “It’s okay, Amy. I—”

I love Kayla more than life, but if she says she’s sorry, my head will explode. “You should be happy,” I snap, giving in to my anger. I know it’s misplaced but it’s all I have right now. “You hated Craig. I bet you’re happy he’s dead.”

Kayla sighs, her arms tightening around me.

I try to squirm out of her grip, but she doesn’t let me.

“Yes, I hated Craig,” she admits in an infuriatingly calm tone.

“I didn’t wish him dead, but I won’t mourn him.

But you loved him, Ames. You’re allowed to mourn him.

Just like you’re allowed to feel relieved he’s gone. ”

“What?! I would never feel that! That’s just wrong. I loved him. I did. I would never feel relieved that— No. Just no.” If only my stupid feelings would line up with my words.

Having known me forever, Kayla sees right through my bullshit but doesn’t call me out on it.

“That’s okay. Still, you need to talk about this.

I’ll make an appointment with a therapist friend of mine for you.

And,” she continues over my protests, “until you promise to go there, I’m not leaving Kansas City. ”

“You need to get back to work.”

Kayla shrugs. “I’ll take a sabbatical. Or quit. You’re more important than my job, Amy.”

God, I hate how perfect she is! “I don’t need a therapist. I’m not crazy.”

“Amy,” Kayla says in a tone she no doubt uses with her child clients, “therapy isn’t just for ‘crazy’ people. It’s a place where you can talk about your feelings without being judged. You’re going. End of discussion.”

“Bitch,” I mutter as I childishly hide under the blanket again. My mind is a little clearer now but it feels like there’s an avalanche inside it, just waiting to be triggered. All the thoughts and feelings I’ve been squashing down and pushing away are there, ready to swarm me once the dam breaks.

Perhaps talking to a stranger isn’t the worst idea because there are things, nasty things, I can’t let Kayla know.

This relief over someone’s death… How can I ever look into her eyes again if she knows that part of me is happy that the love of my life died?

I can’t even look at myself, and not just because of how hideous I look right now.

I must be a terrible person. Perhaps that inner terribleness is starting to show up on the outside, too. That’s why I have the bruises. Not because Craig hit me but because I’m rotten, inside and out.

Before my thoughts can spiral again, Kayla hijacks half of my blanket, sneaks underneath it, and spoons me. Like when we were children, she keeps the bad thoughts at bay until I fall into a fitful sleep. Hopefully, when I wake up, this will all be just a nightmare.