Page 17 of Depraved Truths

Her eyes shift away, and I feel a hot rush of rage. This woman’s depravity is beyond anything I could’ve imagined.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

She refuses to answer, and I press the gun to her forehead. Her eyes widen in alarm, and she stammers out a weak, unconvincing excuse: “He pays the rent on time.”

“He pays the rent on time?” My lip curls up in disgust. “You know what? Don’t say anything more. The time for talking is over. Say another fucking word, and I’ll blow your fucking head off. Grab the tourniquet,” I instruct.

Her gaze falls to it, and she hesitates before reaching for the tourniquet with trembling hands.

“Tie it around your arm.”

She does as I say and then looks at me. Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieve a syringe and hand it to her.

“What is that?” she whispers, fear creeping into her voice as the realization dawns on her.

“Exactly what you deserve,” I say coldly, plunging the needle into the most prominent vein I can find. Within seconds, her face turns white, her skin becomes cold and damp. She lets out a series of gurgling noises, and her pupils—tiny dots—plead with mine for a fleeting moment before fading into a haze. Her lips turn blue, and vomit spills from the corner of her mouth. Her body convulses violently, and I find a chilling satisfaction as the light slowly seeps from her eyes. Her body slackens and slumps to the side.

A normal person might feel remorse, maybe even worry about the consequences of getting caught, but not me. I don’t feel any of that. Instead, I feel an eerie sense of peace. The fear or guilt that should be there? It’s nowhere to be found. And now there is one less monster in the world. Candice may not have set out to harm her child, but she didn’t protect her, and she certainly didn’t save her. Ansley will be better off without her.

Grabbing up her phone, I set it to speaker, dial 9-1-1, and place it next to her hand.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator responds, clearly bored.

“I think I took too much,” I whisper, trying to disguise my voice.

The operator hastily assures me that paramedics are on their way. I remove the tourniquet, leaving the syringe hanging limply from her arm. There’s no need for any further countermeasures.The police will discover a drug addict who overdosed on fentanyl-laced drugs. I holster my gun and head for the door, listening for any sounds in the hallway. It’s silent, and I slip out of the complex unnoticed.

Outside, I discard the gloves in a dumpster behind the dollar store. I walk into the ladies' restroom, remove my hoodie, pull my hair out of the ponytail, and touch up my lipstick. After flushing the toilet for effect, I walk out, and head back to my cart.

Spotting an employee walking toward me, I clutch my stomach and twist my face into a grimace of pain.

“I’m so sorry. It’s that time of the month, and something didn’t settle right in my stomach. I wouldn't use the restroom just yet,” I say apologetically.

With a sympathetic glance, she directs me to the Midol counter. After grabbing a box, I browse the tampon section, add a few more items to my cart, and head to checkout.

Two minutes later, I’m walking out with my two bags. An ambulance rushes by with its flashing lights and blaring sirens. Casually, I load my things into the backseat and climb into the car. Those lights won’t be needed for much longer. By the time Ansley gets off the school bus, her mother’s body will be long gone. I had Bryce take a look into her maternal grandmother and aunt, who live in Alabama. They’ll no doubt take her in and treat her very well.

If anyone bothers to look at the security footage, they’ll only see me entering and leaving. How could anyone possibly suspect me?

Chapter 16

What a fucking week it’s been. Nothing has gone according to plan. One problem after another has affected every job site. We're juggling three projects right now, and things are getting busier by the day. A warehouse delay has put one of the homes on hold because we’re still waiting on the materials needed to finish it.

To top it off, I can’t get Tessa out of my head. Just a taste, a hint of her sweetness, and I’m consumed by the need to claim her as my own. It’s only a matter of time before I get her exactly where I want her—underneath me, naked, screaming my name as she comes.

The way she ran out on me at the bar only piqued my curiosity. I contacted an old friend of mine, someone with access to the information I needed.

Tessa Sparks, twenty-eight, daughter of Dillon and Nancy Sparks from the Buckhead district in Atlanta. No siblings. She kept her head down in school, got good grades, and had no boyfriends in high school. She graduated in the top ten of her class, which had over three thousand students, earning a full scholarshipto UGA. Not that she needed it, judging by her parents' wealth and the hefty trust fund her grandfather left her.

From all I can gather, the day she left Atlanta, she severed contact with her parents. She has no other close family or friends aside from Allie and a guy named Bryce Hayes, whom she met in college. There’s no record of any legal issues, not even a speeding ticket. The most interesting thing I found was the death of her first college boyfriend, nineteen-year-old Brady Collins. He was killed in a boating accident in Panama City Beach during spring break in her first year at UGA, with Tessa named as the sole witness. After that, she had a couple of short relationships, but mostly, she focused on her nursing degree. She graduated with honors before moving to Lake Falls a year ago.

She has little to no social media presence, though she appears in a few pictures on her friends’ accounts. Her current residence is just a few miles from my place. She’s an avid runner and volunteers a few hours a month at a local women’s shelter. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t been seeing anyone since she moved into town.

I wonder how much further things could’ve gone if those drunk assholes hadn’t interrupted us. And why the hell did she run off? I know she wanted me as much as I wanted her. I still want her. It’s her face and her body I’ve been jerking off to in the shower every day since.

I quickly change into jeans, a blue T-shirt, and work boots. I need to pick up some supplies from a couple of different stores. On top of work, I’ve got some ongoing projects at my own fixer-upper. When I first moved back, I stayed with Jace for a few months, then snagged a nice piece of property on the lake. I haven’t decided yetwhether I want to keep it or sell it. I’m aiming for renovations that will appeal both to me and to a potential buyer.

I see countlessPinterestphotos from homeowners every week with extravagant requests that are often unrealistic given their budget. Or they can afford it and decide mid-project to change the design. I don’t mind—I’ll be compensated either way, and so will my employees.

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