Page 86 of Thankless in Death

Now he had somebody to wait on him that wouldn’t nag and bitch and try to make him feel worthless. Now he had somebody else on shit detail, and nobody to tell him to get a job, grow up, be responsible, do his work.

Fuck all of that. Fuck all of them.

Starting, he thought, with Ms. Farnsworth.

He’d considered how to do it. He liked the knife. He really enjoyed the way it felt when the blade went in, came out. But it was so damn messy, and he had nice clothes on.

He should buy some protective gear for down the road.

Same went for the bat. Blood and brains everywhere, and that was a rush. But he’d fuck up his clothes.

Definitely buying protective gear.

He could strangle her, but he kind of wanted to try something new. To expand his horizons. Wasn’t that one of her favorite things to say? Expand your horizons.

Yeah, he’d expand them on her. See how she liked it.

He got what he wanted, sauntered into the office.

She didn’t look so good. Or smell so good.

She’d pissed herself again, which surprised him. He hadn’t given her more than a couple sips of water all day, and no food.

He thought she maybe looked like she’d lost a couple pounds.

The Jerry Reinhold Diet, he thought with a cackle that had her head snapping up.

No, make that the Anton Trevor Diet. New look, new digs, new name. New man.

“Hey, there!”

He didn’t see the dog; didn’t give Snuffy a thought. Out of sight, out of mind.

But he did see she’d been trying to get free. The tape around her right hand was looser, and she’d managed to drag her hand out about halfway up. The wrist that showed beyond the cord and tape looked like raw meat.

“Ouch!” He clucked his tongue, ticked his index finger back and forth. “But that’s what you get when you don’t listen to the rules. Where’d you think you were going to go if you got loose? What’d you think you were going to do? I mean, clue up, Ms. Farnsworth. I’m a lot smarter than you gave me credit for.”

He posed, tapping thumbs to his chest. “I’ve got all your money. I’ve got all your shit that’s worth taking. I look iced, and you look like crap.”

Smiling, smiling, he stepped closer to her. “And you did everything I told you to do. You’re the useless one. The stupid one. And I’m the one who’s going to live in a totally mag apartment. I’ll probably get one in London or Paris, too, once I finish my... personal business and hire out. People pay a lot of money for an experienced hit man—governments, too.”

His eyes narrowed at the derision in hers. “You don’t think I can make the big bucks, bitch? I already did, and most of it used to be yours. With my rep I can name my own price. I’m rich, and I’m famous, and you’re sitting in your own piss. Who’s the winner now? Who’s the winner now?”

He ripped the tape off her mouth, taking dried flesh with it.

She looked him hard in the eye. Her voice was little more than a croak, as dry as her skin. But she’d have her say. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a vicious little turd.”

He punched her. He hadn’t intended to because, fuck, it hurt his hand. But nobody was going to talk to him like that. Nobody.

“You think you’re better than me. You think I’m nothing? I’ll show you nothing.”

She knew she was dead before he put the plastic bag over her head. She’d come to accept it. Still she fought. Not to survive, not any longer. But to cause him pain. To give him something back.

She rocked in the chair, even as he twisted the opening of the bag tight, even as he tried to wrap the tape around and around. She shoved back with what strength she had left, hoarded the small satisfaction when she felt the chair slam into him, heard him yelp and curse over the roar of blood in her head.

The chair overbalanced, her weight carrying it back. Though she gulped like a fish, her body screaming for air, somewhere inside she smiled when he screamed in pain.

He kicked her. Her belly exploded with agony, her chest burned, and everything began to shake.