Page 33 of Soft Tissue Damage
“I love you,” Elena whispers.
“I love you, too.”
My heart withers to ashes, and I close the app.
I sit for a long time with the heel of my hand pressed between my eyes. I haven’t felt this kind of rejection in decades, not since I first showed a hint of my criminal side to my ex-wife. She was so convinced I was predictable and led an unexciting life that I was happy to show her otherwise.Unfortunately, Rebecca didn’t like what I told her. Finding out you have a criminal for a husband is a lot to take on board, but I was still crushed. Rebecca freaked out and made me swear never to break the law again, and I told her what she needed to hear because I didn’t want to lose her. We were already fighting over her drinking and inconsistent interest in our son. She drunkenly confessed that she nearly got rid of Leon in secret, and that just about broke my heart. When she sobered up, she swore she didn’t mean it, but the fact that she said it and the fact that Leon might have overheard shook me to my core. In hindsight, I should have just let our marriage die, but I was bulldog stubborn about trying to keep our family together.
If I’d killed men in front of my ex, I think she would have screamed the place down. Understandable? Sure. I can sympathize with that.
But I don’t want that.
Elena accepted my blood-soaked violence with a grateful heart and open arms. The kind of acceptance I’ve only ever dreamed about.
But Elena doesn’t want me. She wants my son.
I sigh and shake my head. I’m such a fucking idiot. Elena’s half my age. She sees me as her boss. A completely non-sexual, non-romantic entity.
I open my phone and text Tyrant Mercer.
Cullan: I’m having a midlife crisis. I’m a fucking embarrassment.
Tyrant: You’re the best infiltration expert on the West Coast, but I’m guessing this is not about work.
Cullan: A woman. I want her, but she doesn’t want me.
Tyrant: Come over. We’ll drink bourbon until you can’t remember your own name, let alone hers.
Cullan: I’m on my way.
As I peel away from the curb, I notice someone walking along beside me. A man in his thirties wearing a dark trench coat. I drive past him in my car and check his reflection in my rearview mirror, and his face is just visible in the glow from my taillights.
How interesting. How very fucking interesting.
Three years ago, this man asked me to install a security system in his house. As I always do with prospective clients, I did some research on him, and an acquaintance told me he’d raped a girl, the fourteen-year-old daughter of a drug dealer. A family like hers doesn’t go to the police, so it was never reported.
When I asked the man why he needed a new security system, he mumbled something about a man being after him, and he didn’t feel safe. I can only imagine the man was the girl’s father. I saw photos of his victim. God knows why they were being passed around, and I wish I hadn’t seen this poor girl’s private misery after she’d suffered so much already. But I did see, and the bruised mess he made of her face as he forced her to stop fighting him is forever etched on my brain. Disgusted, I walked away from the job, but I was left with a nagging feeling that I hadn’t done enough.
Seeing this man tonight feels like a sign. Not from Elena’s God, but from my guardian devil. Things might bebad, but they’re not hopeless. I unlocked a piece of myself in that house in Fenton, and I have barely begun to explore it.
There’s a leftover piece of electrical wire lying on the seat beside me, just long enough to wrap tightly around someone’s neck and strangle them to death.
A thrill goes through me. I keep the man in my sights as I pull into a parking space. I get out my phone and text Mercer.
Cullan: Change of plan. We’ll catch up next week.
Tyrant: Why?
Cullan: I’m following my dreams.
Tyrant: Corny fucker. I’m pleased to hear it. See you soon.
Knowing Mercer, if he knew what I was up to tonight, he would be pleased. I crave to feel as alive as I did after murdering Elena’s attackers.
I sit in the dark and wait for the man to pass my truck. I have to be sure about this. If I get caught, I’ll lose everything. My children. My freedom. It’s not like crime is new to me. If all my misdeeds were discovered, they’d amount to hundreds of years behind bars. But this crime feels different. More visible. Sensational. My recent crimes haven’t hit the papers, but this one probably will.
I have to be very fucking careful that I don’t make a mistake and get caught. If I do this and become a suspect, I don’t have an alibi. I should be meticulously planning my first kill so that I don’t make any mistakes. That’s how I’ve handled all my crimes in the past. The “real” Cullan Grant isn’t spontaneous. The “real” Cullan Grant is a responsiblefamily man who only breaks the law for a means to an end. He’s not someone who skulks through the night with thoughts of blood and darkness. The “real” Cullan Grant might break the rules, but for the sake of business, and he takes no pleasure in it.
But is that man the real Cullan Grant, or did I become him to mask the dark, violent urges in my soul?
