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66
DANIEL
I pull to the side of the road and shove the gearshift into park in front of the abandoned house. Fuck knows why it’s still standing and hasn’t been demolished after all these years.
It’s obvious that it’s been condemned, the caution tape a big fucking clue along with the notice nailed to the front door that hangs on only two of the three hinges. Waist-high grass and weeds border the dilapidated structure, giving it an eerie appearance.
Nobody’s built nearby here, the other houses still a half mile or more down the road. I can’t say I blame them. This place looks like something out of a horror movie and it’s not too far off. What happened inside years ago was pretty much a fucking living nightmare.
Opening my car door, I step out and shut it behind me. I lean back against the Chevelle and slide my hands in my pockets, my eyes trained on the sight in front of me.
I’m not planning to head inside—and not just because it sure as hell isn’t safe. I don’t need to step foot in that place to jog my goddamn memories. Not even one fucking bit.
This house was never a home. Never somewhere I continuously felt safe and loved. Instead of home-cooked meals or baked goods ever gracing that kitchen table, piles of bills and empty beer bottles and cans littered it.
I left this all behind without a backward glance, hellbent on making something of myself. Even so, there’s no denying this is where it all began.
This is where I became a murderer.
But no one held a gun to my head or even took control of my mind to force me to do it. I made that choice on my own, of my own free will. Just like Emilia made the choice to abandon me. Just like she chose to assist that Pinney motherfucker in torturing others.
I’ve heard people say, “Don’t let your past define you,” but I don’t entirely agree with that. My past defined me from the start and propelled me in the direction I took—the direction I needed to take. It made me see that killing isn’t black and white; it’s not always wrong—at least not in my mind.
Eliminating evil is one hundred percent necessary.
Reggie taught me that when I was eleven fucking years old, and it’s the only lesson I ever held on to. The only lesson he taught me that was worth holding on to.
I scan the exterior of the house slowly before expelling a long breath. My words are muted, and a part of me can’t believe I’m even doing this, but it just…feels necessary.
“I forgive you, Emilia.” When my throat clogs with emotion, I rush to clear it. “I understand why you left…and I forgive you for what you did to Mac.” My final words are hoarse and barely audible. “And I still love you. Always.”
A light breeze sends the tall grass swaying slightly and a dog barks idly in the distance. It’s almost as if it’s a signal to affirm me.
This is what I needed to do. What I needed in order to move on. This is what’s been holding me back from the life I want—the life I want so fucking bad.
I offer one final cursory look at the house once more, because I know this’ll be the last time I’ll ever come here.
Choices. Life’s made up of them. This is where the most important one I ever made happened.
It’s where I’ll make the next important one, too. It’ll set me on a slightly different path than expected, but it’s a choice that releases the bulk of tension from my muscles.
Because this choice pertains to my future.
67
MAC
Three Days Later
“Hey, Mac Attack, I’m gonna grab me a quick snack, if that’s all right.”
I heave out a sigh from beneath the hood of the Crown Victoria and holler back, “Stop with the damn nicknames!”
He laughs. “You want anythin’?”
“Yeah. A beef stick.”
“Naw, can’t help you with that. That stuff’ll kill you.”
