Page 80 of Vengeance of Childhood Proportions (Till Death Do Us Part #7)

Chapter Seventy

Holly

I dragged the visitor chair over to sit next to him. “Hello, Sheriff.”

Emmet shit himself as Jason strapped him to the table. I recorded the entire event to show his father as well. Wouldn’t want him to miss it just because he was dying of cancer.

The man lifted a shaky hand, moving the oxygen mask down slightly. He immediately started coughing, but he still managed to say my name. “Holly…”

I put the portable projector on the table next to Emmet’s head.

The man slept most of the time, so his overhead lights were already dimmed and the shades were pulled on the window.

I hit Play, allowing the recording of his son’s last moments to be viewed on the white wall across from the former sheriff’s bed.

I’d already programmed the device to play on repeat.

Horror filled him as he watched, and he needed to put the mask back over his nose. I didn’t know how much he could hear, since the speakers on the small projector weren’t the greatest, but I knew from the way his heartbeat picked up on the monitor next to me that he was able to see it.

I let it play through twice before I asked the one thing I needed to know before I ended his life too. “Was it worth it?”

He struggled to lower the mask again. “He. Was. My. Son.” He had to speak each word carefully and precisely.

The recording was starting to play for the third time. “He’s your dead son now.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, catching on the green elastic of his oxygen mask. “I’m. Sorry. Never. Meant. For. It. To. Go. This. Far.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at those words. “And how far did you mean for it to go, Sheriff? What exactly was your endgame?”

He didn’t answer—or couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t know the answer. Regardless, he started coughing hard and needed to place the mask back on his face.

Standing, I headed over to all his monitors. He watched me with pure trepidation, but I didn’t see him trying to reach for the call button to the nurse’s station, nor was he shouting out for help.

“At the end of the day, I don’t really care why you did it,” I told him. I started turning the monitors off one by one. “Whatever the reason was, it changes nothing. The outcome will still be the same.”

“I. Am. Sorry.”

I looked over my shoulder. “That’s between you and your god, Sheriff.

Like I said, I don’t care.” After turning off the last monitor, I headed back to my chair.

I pulled a vial and a capped syringe out of my pocket.

I place both on the table next to his son’s head.

“The hockey game is the one thing I’ve never understood.

As I said, it doesn’t matter, we still end up here, but I never understood why a hockey game was so fucking important. ”

Renfrew took several deep breaths before lowering the mask again. “Not. About. Hockey. Hagley. Had. Gambling. Debts. Bet. Everything. On. The. Game.”

I closed my eyes, a wave of despair piercing me.

And the stupidest part? I wished nothing more in that moment than for Master Mal to be standing beside me, holding my hand.

Gambling debts . After everything, it was so…

mundane. Almost a letdown. The man had bet on the State Championship game.

And if his players were in prison for rape, there would be no game, no winnings.

Who the fuck gambled on high school sports?

I didn’t know enough about the subject to speculate.

I’d heard of gambling when it came to college sports and minor or major leagues, but high school?

I hadn’t realized that was even a thing.

I had to center myself. As I told the former sheriff, it really didn’t matter. It still landed me in this room. Nothing and no one could change that.

I picked up the vial and the syringe. “Do you know what a Gila Monster is, Sheriff?”

The mask was back over his face as he shook his head.

“Desert lizards,” I said as I filled the barrel with the sickly yellow liquid.

“Let’s just say they’ve got a face only a mother could love.

Nasty claws and sharp fangs. But their real threat is their venom.

From the research I did, I’m told it feels like lava is running through your veins.

Horrible, but not fatal. At least, not generally.

Not to a healthy man, and you, my dear Sheriff, are far from healthy. ”

I picked up the tubing of his IV, running my fingers along it until I reached the cannula. Carefully, I inserted the needle. “I hope it’s as painful as experts claim it is,” I told the dying man before I pushed my thumb down on the plunger.