Page 113 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
From the feral glint in his eyes, I have no doubt.
Marty is balled up on the bedroom floor, his face like hamburger meat. From the way blood is seeping from his nose, Byron got in a good punch or two there. And probably other places too. I wouldn’t have stopped at one.
“Look at you, idiot.” I shake my head. “Serves you right.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Marty whines.
“You were in a woman’s closet, uninvited. If nothing else, that makes you a peeping pervert.”
“At Julie? Ugh!” He raises both hands in front of his face, as though he’s scared of getting hit again.
Not that he has a lot of undamaged area to guard. I have to give Byron credit. He did a thorough job. I’m vaguely disappointed there isn’t much of Marty left to kick.
“I only wanted what was mine! I tried but couldn’t approach Ivy again after…my visit to her office and stuff, so I thought maybe she left it here. She spent, like, two weeks here after Dad died.”
The visit to her office and stuff? The only attempt I know of is him accosting her at the foundation. “Define ‘stuff.’”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.” Marty’s voice is thin, wavering.
“Wrong answer.” I pull my arm back, ready to break his nose.
He lowers his head. “Okay, okay, okay! It’s not anything serious.” He swallows hard. “I tried, like, once right after I left. But it isn’t easy, you know? Unlike you, I never had anything handed to me easy.”
Yeah, whatever, whiny little dick.I’m about to tell him what I think about his “I never had anything handed to me easy,” but something stops me.
He mentioned he tried again right after he left the office. Ivy never said he came back or harassed her again. As a matter of fact, the same day, she got mugged…
Suddenly, it clicks.
I lower my gaze to his shoes. A nice enough pair. The left one has a black mark on the tip, though. Just like the pair the man who hired the addict was wearing.
Fury storms through me, as I recall Ivy’s banged-up knee and scraped calf. It’d be gratifying to break both Marty’s legs, but I cling to control. I want to know why. And who’s pulling his strings, if there is someone.
“So you hired that homeless guy to mug Ivy? You thought maybe she was carrying it?” My voice is silky smooth over simmering rage.
“He wasn’t supposed to hurt her.” His tone is sulky, like a toddler who’s been told he can’t have all the ice cream. “I told him not to. He didn’t, did he?”
Not a hint of remorse. Son of a bitch. “He pushed her and made her fall. What do you think?” I give him a sudden jab that’s hard enough to make his head snap back. It isn’t enough to calm my rage, but I hold on to control.
“Even if you hit me, it doesn’t change the fact it’s mine,” Marty spits.
Finally some spine. Maybe I’ll get my kicks after all. “Is this about money?”
“Everything’s about money. What I’m entitled to!”
“But you knew she wouldn’t be carrying a lot of cash in her bag.” And he promised it to the homeless guy anyway. “What the hell are you looking for?”
“I don’t have to tell you shit! It’s illegal to torture me like this!”
“Torture?” I turn to Byron. “Do you see any torture?”
He shrugs, studying his fingernails. “All I see is a fellow who banged himself a lot. Repeatedly. Against the bathroom doorknob. A pity it isn’t his bathroom doorknob. Cops frown on small details like that.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Marty yells.
Nobody ever just graciously admits their wrongdoing. It’s always excuses. Denial. “Remember how Jamie Thornton fell a lot?” I ask. “Maybe you’ll even get both your wrists broken. I’ve heard it hurts.”
Sweat pops out along his hairline. “You fucking animal!”
