Page 120 of The Colour of Revenge
A Serial Killer Who Can’t Stop Crying
Hypothetical Question: If you could erase one word from the English language forever, which one would it be and why is it ‘moist’?
Nate
Pain.
A deep, throbbing ache radiates through my skull as consciousness claws its way back. My body feels heavy, like I'm wading through thick, suffocating fog.
What the fuck happened?
A voice slices through the haze. "Nate!"
The sound is distant at first, then closer—Kai's voice, sharp with urgency. Footsteps pound across the house, then halt just as I manage to push myself upright.
He stares down at me, eyes scanning, calculating. "Where's Carina?"
The question slams into me like a bullet. My mind sharpens, panic surges through my veins.
No.
I whip my head around, scanning the room, searching. She has to be here. But the truth gnaws at me, cold and merciless.
She's gone.
Still, I search the entire house, tearing through rooms, ripping open doors, overturning furniture—anything to prove myself wrong. But with every space, the weight in my chest grows heavier, suffocating.
When I finally stop, my legs give out. I drop to my knees, my hands shaking as they clutch my face. A broken, guttural sob tears from my throat.
Kai stands over me, his expression grim. He doesn't say"We'll find her"or"Calm down"because he knows better. Instead, after a long moment, he lowers himself beside me, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and holds me together when I'm breaking apart.
Kai isn't the comforting type.
Which makes it worse.
Tears spill down my face as his fingers press against the back of my head, a steadying touch. “We’ll get her back,” he whispers, stroking my head.
My best friend is comforting me like I’m a small child. And me? I’m a serial killer who can’t stop crying because the love of his life is gone.
I don't remember standing up. I don't remember wiping the tears away.
But when I speak again, my voice is steel.
"There has to be a way to find her. Can you check CCTV footage?"
Kai scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Of course. But…” His hesitation is out of character.
I frown. "But what?"
"There's someone who might be able to help more than me."
I wait. His fingers drum against his thigh like he's debating to say the next words.
"Her friend. Enzo." He exhales sharply, watching me. "He's from the Italian Mafia."
The words hit like a slap.
I blink. "Huh."
