Page 50 of The King of Hearts

Emo isn’t his real name. It was one he gave himself when he was a child, because he doesn’t feel emotions like most people do. The ability was beaten and raped out of him. My childhood was shit, but Emo and his brothers’ was a pure fuckingnightmare that started the day they were born and ended in their early teens when the town full of perverted freaks was raided. At least mine only lasted a few years.

He grunts something that I don’t really hear because my attention is still on my laptop, and then follows it with, “I have something you’ll be interested in.”

The muscles in my shoulders tense, and I sit up straighter in my chair. “What do you have?”

Emo and I met years ago when we attended the same university. He was a few years ahead of me. He was quiet and kept to himself, which was exactly what I did. I had no desire to socialize or interact with anyone. I was there to learn, not party or become besties with the rich assholes or fake bitches that attended.

Late one night, I was walking back to my apartment when I heard muffled grunts come from a dark alleyway. I investigated. Not because I wanted to save whoever was obviously getting the shit beat out of him. I honestly didn’t care who the person was or what was being done to him. And besides, it wasn’t my business. I was merely curious.

When I stepped into the dark alley, I recognized Emo right away. He had a guy who looked a couple years older than him pinned against the side of a brick building. His face was beat to hell and back, and one of his arms hung uselessly at his side, like it was broken. With his good hand, the guy was yanking at the arm Emo had pressed against his windpipe, but it was like swatting at flies with all the good it was doing him.

I stepped toward them out of the shadows, and that was when Emo noticed me. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. We just stared at each other. It was like we recognized the darkness that resided in both of us.

Emo tossed the guy to the ground. I had a switchblade in my pocket I had planned to toss to him to use, but it wasn’t needed.There was an old broken bottle nearby that he utilized. The bottle was laying on its side, and it was broken down the middle with the jagged pieces facing up. I stood there with my hands in my pockets as Emo straddled the guy’s back and yanked his head up by his hair and slid the bottle directly under his face. To give the guy credit, he fought the best he could with the little strength he had left. He even tried using his broken arm, but that went on the wayside when he bit out a yell of pain.

It was fascinating to watch Emo slowly lower the guy’s face to the glass. It was even more riveting when the sharp edges pierced his skin. Blood gushed from the wounds, and the guy’s yells became high-pitched screams. Emo wrapped his free hand around the guy’s throat to silence him and kept applying pressure to the back of his head. The glass embedded itself into the guy’s face. When that wasn’t good enough, Emo ground his face against the glass and concrete, slicing his skin to ribbons. The guy was still alive, but his struggles were slowing. He finished the guy off by yanking his head back, and with a grunt, slammed his head down as hard as he could.

Emo got up, dusted his black-gloved hands off on his pants, and turned to face me. Again, neither of us said a word. He turned and walked down the opposite end of the alley without a care in the world, and I went back the way I entered it. I wasn’t sure if the guy was still alive, and I didn’t care. The next day, I heard on a news report about the murder. Come to find out, Emo did the world a favor. The guy had just been released on bail after raping two women.

“My facial recognition software picked up something interesting,” Emo says, pulling me back to the current conversation.

“Who?” I ask, but I have a feeling I already know. I only have Emo searching for one person, and in the two years he’s been looking, there’s never been the slightest hint.

“Your father.”

My chair creaks when I lean back. “Where?”

“Downtown Atlanta. He was spotted walking out of a bank a week ago.”

“Can you send me the footage?”

“It should have already hit your inbox.”

Savina is still on her side, her eyes closed as she sleeps peacefully, when I pull up a new window and go to my email account. Sitting nice and pretty is a fresh email from Emo.

“Got it.” I click on the download button, and a notification pops up on my screen. “No other sightings?”

“None so far, but I’ll let you know if anything pops up.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Call if you need anything.”

I pick up the glass of Macallan and swirl the liquid.

“Did you get the package I sent you?” I ask.

“Yes. And the instructions.”

I take a sip of the whiskey. The amber liquid burns a smooth path down my throat.

“Go time is in a week. I’ll contact you once everything is in the clear. You know what to do if you don’t hear from me.”

“Everything is in place and ready.”

The line disconnects after that, and I toss my phone down on my desk. Emo and his brothers are my kind of people. They aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, and oftentimes relish in it just as much as I do. They reside in a small town in Texas called Malus. It’s the same town where they grew up, but things are much different than they were when Emo was a child. Back then, the town was called Sweet Haven. When they were children, the adults of the town had a ritualistic practice they performed every month. All of the town’s children were gathered in a great hall in the center of town. It was there that they raped, sodomized, and abused the children. All under the disgusting guise thatthey were doing God’s work. That it was He who granted them permission to show their love for their children in the most sick way possible.

All of it stopped when the Feds swarmed Sweet Haven and dismantled the cultish town. Most of the adults were arrested and later convicted. Some were killed during the raids, but some got away. Emo and his brothers dedicated their lives to eradicating those who escaped. As adults, they returned to the town and petitioned to change its name. They chose Malus because the town may have been born from evil, but it prevailed and became something good.

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