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Speaking of emotions, I had plenty for this snot rag. Angry, violent, disgusted ones. A client had hired me to take care of him, but truly, it was my fucking pleasure.
“Wait, are you with someone?” Jake asked. He paused while I twirled the butterfly blade down so close to Terry’s hand, it swiped off one of his knuckle hairs. Terry yelped, and Jake barked, “Are you working?”
“I’m always working,” I replied easily. “Make it brief. Terry isn’t being very patient.”
“Help!” Terry screamed suddenly, straining against the utility belts that held him against the chair. “If someone’s there, help! Please!”
“He sounds a few yolks short of an omelet,” Jake remarked, his accent twanging.
“Oh, he’s definitely a bad egg,” I agreed darkly. I let my blade fall point-first between his index and middle finger. Terry screamed, his eyes rolling back in his head. “What about the property?”
“Right. You’re going to love this. It’s 400 acres with a 6,000 square-foot house, heated garages, and best of all—”
“—caretaker house?” I finished.
“Yep. And mountain views.”
I wrenched my blade out from between Terry’s fingers and started to tap between them in an idle pattern, coming uncomfortably close to the digits as I dotted between each of them in a steady tempo. Snot ran down Terry’s nose as he sobbed quietly. “What’s the catch?”
“Okay, hear me out,” Jake started.
I paused, my eyelids falling in irritation. “Jake.”
“It’s close to your budget, and you can take out a loan for the rest. For God’s sake. You’re a millionaire. Go into debt like the rest of the civilized world.”
I wasn’t part of the civilized world. I was a specter who lived on the edges, dipping in and out of bloody shadows that “civilized” people didn’t deign to touch. A ghost. “Find another one.”
“It’s three-point-three million and fucking perfect, Kael. At least come see it before you say n—”
“No. Find one that fits my parameters. I told you what I have, and I’m only buying in cash. Do your job.”
“Goddammit, Kael, if you think you can find a five-hundred-acre ranch in Montana with your specifications for jus—”
I hung up and tossed my phone onto the table. The dim fluorescent lights cast a sickly hue over Terry’s face as he gulped in buckets of air and leaked snot and tears all over his thin face. My lip curled faintly. We were in Terry’s own basement, surrounded by boxes of family mementos and old toys their kids had outgrown years ago. Behind him, a small, college dorm kind of desk had been set up with an old PC Terry used to offer his… assistance to minors. When one of the victim’s parents had hired me to take care of Terry the Lecherous Maggot, I’d been all too willing to assist them. The thought of what he’d done to dozens of kids over the years, undetected and unprosecuted, made my stomach curdle.
I’d seen a lot of shit over the years, so this shouldn’t have affected me. But it did. Maybe it had been my decision to retire from the business early. Maybe it was my newfound search for a home, for a place to belong. Whatever the reason, my tolerance for this kind of bottom-feeder depravity had taken a nosedive. More and more, it seemed like the enamel shell around my heart cracked with spiderweb fissures. It allowed creeps like Terry to filter down and hit those squishy, irritatingly vulnerable parts of me like droplets of acid to exposed flesh.
Unfortunately for Terry, all that shell cracking didn’t stir up the one emotion he actually needed from me—Mercy.
I tapped the back of his hand with the flat of my blade. “What’s wrong, Terry? You feeling sorry now? It’s a little late for that.”
“I am sorry,” he blubbered, his voice cracking. “I-I meant it in an innocent way—”
I jammed the butterfly knife into the table, so close to the webbing between his pointer and thumb, the blade kissed the purple skin.
“—at first!” Terry screeched. “At first! I really meant to help. I-I’m sick. I just need h-help.”
“You’re a rare breed, Terry,” I drawled, flicking the knife handle with my finger so it vibrated and caused a little bead of blood to weep from the delicate webbing between the bastard’s fingers. “I think you really believe you’re a good liar.” He sobbed in earnest, fighting my hold. It was pointless, though. I’d secured him with black canvas restraints cinched tightly around his arms and torso, over his thighs, and down his legs, trapping him tightly to the chair. The only thing I’d kept free was his hand. And that was mine.
“It’s true!” he insisted, his voice rough with panic. His glasses had fallen askew on his face, and I pulled my knife free from the table again.
This time, I leaned over and used the wicked sharp tip to push the wire rims back into place over his nose. “I’ve smelled sewers full of less shit than you, asswipe.” His throat bobbed, lips trembling. Then his features broke again, and he gave into pathetic, keening wails. I rolled my eyes. “Will you shut up? You’re giving me a headache.”
“I can’t,” he blubbered. “P-please. I’ll stop. I will.”
“Oh, I know you will,” I grinned mirthlessly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“What do you mean? What do you—what are you doing?”
