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My eyes prick with hot tears, and not only at the vulnerability required to answer that question. It was one thing letting him help me when I was physically injured, but letting him care for the aching parts inside of me feels entirely too deep. I don’t need anything from anybody, and yet, a part of me yearns to give him that. To let someone else care for me if only for this moment.
“Count to ten,” I whisper back, unable to put words to what I want but needing for him to hold me just a little longer.
He doesn’t ask questions. “Ten, nine . . .” I close my eyes and focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. I inhale on the even numbers, exhale on the odds. “Eight, seven, six . . .”
When he reaches one, he slowly lowers his arms and takes a step back. “I can watch the rest in a different room.”
“No, I’m okay,” I reassure him. “I wanna nail this son of a bitch.”
“I never thought I could be so mad that someone wasn’t a murderer.” I groan, frustrated as I stomp, admittedly harder than necessary, on the boardwalk.
“To be fair, he absolutely is a murderer. He just didn’t commit this particular murder,” Lochlan points out.
Any bit of peace I found in Lochlan’s arms disappeared like all of our suspects the second we finished the recording. Ilya and Marcella were home, in bed, the entire night.
“What would we have done if he was the killer?” I can’t believe I’m only just now considering this. But in my defense, as Lochlan puts it, this whole murder thing is new to me.
“First, I’d ask him very nicely how and why he involved you, and, well, if he survived that, then I guess Clark could do whatever he wanted with him.” He speaks so frankly, like the law is merely a suggestion.
When we get to Ocean View, we go straight to the deck seating where the Jakšics are dining. We take a table within line of sight and Marcella quickly spots us. She excuses herself with a smile and comes over.
“I told Clark to tell you the house was empty. Did you go? Did you find anything?” she asks, all bubbly as she sits down, and I realize she’s trying to make it look like a friendly chat.
“It wasn’t him. He didn’t do it.”
Her cheery act drops completely. “Are you sure? I thought you said it was him, that he knew about Bojan and me.” She speaks rapidly, frantically. “How sure are you? Do you know who? Oh my god, oh my god.”
I look at Lochlan in confusion. His face is blank. I know that means he’s absorbing everything and processing it without giving away his conclusions. But when Marcella, full of anxious energy, jumps up and starts shifting back and forth like she can’t decide where to go, I really wish he would share them with me.
“Oh my god!” she screams, clamping her hand over her mouth as she stares, wide-eyed in shock, at the table with her husband and stepson.
Ilya Jakšic’s face is scarlet, and his eyes bulge in panic. He stands abruptly, one hand clutching his throat, the other slapping onto the table for support. His head bobs in a desperate attempt to suck down air. As he collapses, his meaty fist takes the tablecloth with him. His body hits the ground first like a wet log, a single heavy thud, then the dishes, glasses, and cutlery follow in a loud, scattered crash.
“Oh, no, no, no.” Marcella races to her husband while Bojan doesn’t move a muscle. It is utter chaos as guests react to the emergency. Some are screaming and running for help; others are simply frozen, staring with their mouths hanging open.
I find I’m not particularly moved to rush to the pig’s aid.
“This is the something stupid you were talking about, isn’t it?” I ask Lochlan.
“Yep.”
I’ve never felt this type of moral conflict before. Indifferent to the thought of letting a man die. After watching what he did to Marcella, I can’t help but feel like he’s getting exactly what he deserves. And yet, a lifetime of conditioning has me bolting out of my chair and over to them.
Marcella is kneeling by her husband’s side and screaming at Bojan to get her purse. When he does nothing, she stands to get it herself, but her hands are shaking so bad, she drops it.
I bend down and put my hand on her shoulder. “What do you need?”
“Epi— There’s an EpiPen in my purse.” She’s flustered, panicked. Her chaos calms me. It’s natural for me to take over and follow her instructions even as she stumbles through them.
My hand hesitates on the injection once I have it positioned on his thigh. I don’t know what compels me, but I lean close so that he can hear me coldly whisper, “The next time you think your wife owes you anything, remember what it feels like to be unable to breathe and imagine never doing it again.”
He wheezes incoherently through his swollen throat. As his face tinges with purple, I’m not sure he even understands my meaning.
Marcella begs beside me, “Stella, do it now!”
My lip curls and venom laces my final words before I push the injector. “You better be worth my generosity, you pathetic rapist scum.”
1. Play “Smoke - Son Lux Remix” by BOBI ANDONOV, Son Lux
