Page 26 of Vipers & Roses

“Well…” the elderly woman wavers, “she’s not doing too well. She lives on our floor, so that’s how we know about it because the police spoke to us. Apparently, the woman was being stalked, followed her everywhere, even up to our floor.”

“Gosh, that’s awful.” The elevator pings and slides open, and I’m relieved to have left that conversation behind me. Yet, another reason to have a gun is to keep away creepy stalker men. I forgot to ask if anyone had been arrested for the attack, but it's only been a week, so my guess is they haven’t.

Feeling a twinge of fear from that conversation, I ran to my car three rows back and quickly unlocked it. I’m not alone here. I spotted two other people getting in and out of vehicles—perfectly lovely people, I’m sure, who have become suspects through a single change of perception.

Once out onto the road, I relax a little, weaving through traffic and stopping at several traffic lights, cruising past the crystal blue lake and then over the Severn River bridge. When I leave all the inland water behind me to head towards the coast where my parents live, we are water beings, land-stranded mermaids and mermen that must live near water, or we’ll shrivel up and die. We learned how to surf and dive as kids, and Max and I belonged to the Surf Life Saving Club, but only I went on to compete in swimming on a serious level. My parents moved us here to Torres Island from the coast when I was fifteen, specifically for swim training under the best coaches while attending one of the best high schools. The entire family was moved here for me. That’s what I find hard to get my head around. I guess that part of the guilt is that I didn’t fulfill their dreams of making it far enough to be accepted into the Olympic or World Champs teams because I quit after The Four ruined my life.

When I quit the swim team, they moved back to the coast, and my older brother joined them. After all the money spent and effort that gave me unique opportunities to succeed in swimming… I quit.

So, it was odd to live on a ranch for 18 months with my aunty, where water comes out of a well or spring, and we had to ride for an hour to get to a wild pond or lake—but returning to Torres Island and seeing my friend, the big ol’ lake’s calm blue hue. Strangely, I felt a sense of betrayal by the lake because I had changed so much inside and out, yet Great Torres Lake remained unaffected and constant. I was attacked and damaged under her watch, and it was the whispers in the short, choppy waves that told me to leave.

Return when you’re ready.

So, I did.

The sun’s ray burns the side of my face as I drive towards the Pacific Ocean, and my hair blows wildly in the breeze streaming through my open window. I wish summer would never end. Cooler and darker, the leaves falling from the trees that stand like soldiers around the lake are the first signs that Fall has arrived. But not yet. We have another month of summer bliss before the colors change and the lake grows subdued.

Lyons poisons my thoughts as I drive through a small town and consider stopping for ice cream, but my foot refuses to leave the floor, and instead, I drive right through.

My goal is to kill him by the end of summer, which gives me four weeks to learn how to fire a gun accurately and set up the scene where he will meet his fate. I always imagined shooting him in his office since that’s the location where he assaulted me several times. But that would be unwise with so many staff in the surrounding rooms. No, it makes more sense to lure him off campus to a secluded location and then…

His body.

It hadn’t occurred to me before that I’d have to hide his body, throw it onto the lake or river, and hope like hell it doesn’t rise back up again. I’m not strong enough to lift it, although I might be able to drag it a few feet, and I can’t invite a second player into this endeavor.

More plotting and scheming are needed here. I’m a complete amateur who must kill like a professional, or I’ll never get away with it. To kill like a professional, I must think like a professional, leaving no stone unturned. If I have to swallow my vomit and lay a trap by letting him believe that I want to be seduced by him, so he’ll follow a trail out to an isolated place to meet me. I’ll do it. I’m not happy about it, but I’ll do it.

Learn how to fire the gun accurately.

Find the perfect location to kill The Lion.

Lure him out there.

As I see the first sliver of the great ocean between cliff faces, I catch the sight of a small sailboat, a white dash on the horizon alone yet not lonely. I realize how much I am like that boat, seemingly adrift yet entirely in control, waiting for the right time to come ashore.

“Huh,” I grunt aloud at my sadistic humor, “Wouldn’t it be funny if someone on that boat is tossing their rapist or killer of a loved one or thief who stole their life savings overboard as we speak.”

Far away from the human gaze, one accidentally pushes their target off the side of the boat. There are no witnesses, no body of evidence, and the story is that they just slipped off the side of the boat when a large wave hit.

The perfect murder.

14

I pull up the drive of my parents’ place that I grew up in, a two-story white and weathered beach house. Salt and crushed seashells infiltrate my senses, bringing childhood memories all wholesome and happy, yet my natural joy is smothered by enduring anguish. There’s a hole in my stomach that I cannot fill, and being here where unconditional love lives seems to broaden that gap rather than shrink it. Nausea stirs as I walk to the front door, the weight of the whiskey bottle dragging my shoulder down.

I’m over an hour late, to be precise—and I deliberately didn’t check my phone because there would be messages of anguish wondering where I was. God, I hate myself sometimes.

Stepping onto the front deck, I see the house seem strangely quiet and still. Max’s truck is parked up the drive, and another vehicle I don’t recognize, possibly one of Dad’s friends, and my parents’ cars are in the garage. So, everyone is here, but I wonder if they’ve gone for a walk on the beach.

I step inside the house into the shadowy coolness of the foyer, which is refreshing on my hot skin, and catch the muffled sounds of animated chatter. They’re on the deck overlooking the beach, and the scent of charcoaled steak indicates they’re on the barbeque—or, more accurately, Dad is manning it since that’s his domain.

Taking a deep breath, I stroll down the hall to the kitchen and stall at the sight of a man standing at the kitchen bench with his back turned to me, pulling the leaves off corncobs. He has short brown hair, is a little taller than me, and wears blue board shorts and a white T-shirt. I don’t recognize the man immediately until his head turns slightly to the right, and I can see the periphery of his face.

My heart slams against my ribcage as my warm, sunburned body turns icy cold. I have three choices: leave, pretend I don’t recognize or confront him.

I choose to confront him. Why the hell not? Since he’s number two on my list, I may as well find out where he lives, so I end his life like I’m about to end Lyons.

“What are you going here?” I ask him boldly and venomously. I call him The Pig because he’s a cop and left town after he and his friends raped and tortured me. What I don’t understand is why the fuck he is here now in my parents’ house on my dad’s birthday?

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