Page 22 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Hmmm, now that had potential. Did she still have that butane torch in her bag? As he squirmed, she gave him a reprimanding slice down the inside of his thigh.

The first of her warning alarms signaled from her wrist, telling her time was passing by quickly. She always set three alarms—ninety minutes, sixty, and thirty; she usually had the kill over and done with by the first alarm, cleanup complete by the second, and was gone from the scene by the third.

Silencing the irritating beep, Tabitha assessed the situation. She was distracted, which meant there was potential to become sloppy if she wasn’t careful. A creative kill often pulled her into a mental space where she lost track of time—hence the alarms—and she didn’t have any leeway for that now.

She’d be damned if she was going to be caught because Grit consumed her thoughts and her fucking brother was under her skin. Men would not be her downfall, not now.

Quick and simple, then.

Humming under her breath, she didn’t grace her victim with any more words. With the ease of practice, she mercilessly castrated him without further ado, her knife splitting open skin effortlessly.

As screams rained down on her, she realized they weren’t bringing the normal rush of endorphins to the surface; they were just annoying. Disgusted with her state of mind, she dropped the two useless lumps of flesh to the floor, ignoring the copious amount of blood forming a pool beneath the thrashing man, then decided to go the whole hog.

When his cock joined his balls, she stepped back, idly flicking the knife so blood splattered on the walls. There was no need to do anything else but wait for the catastrophic damage to run its course.

The screams died down to pitiful moans as shock kicked in. Luca hung limply, his face turning ashen.

Rather than watching him die, Tabitha began the tidying stage of a kill; cleaning her knife meticulously, using wipes from her bag to remove any trace of blood from the weapon and her hands, checking for any blood that might have found its way on to her.

Black clothing was always a good choice for a bloody murder.

She never touched anything she didn’t need to at a scene. No fingerprints, no trace of her left behind. Finding a metal trashcan in the corner of the room, she kicked it away from the wall and burned the wipes until nothing remained but ash.

When the cops found the body, they’d add it to her tally—this one bore all her trademarks. It didn’t bother her, yet there wasn’t any sense of pride either. Besides, once they dug through all the evidence and souvenirs of Luca’s crimes, they’d understand the why of the matter.

Satisfied her work was done, she grabbed her bag, flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head, and gave Luca one last glance.

Graying skin, limp body, dead eyes.

One more pervert off the streets.

As she left the unit, her thoughts turned to Grit and what he was doing now. The urge to see him was overpowering, but her stomach churned at the idea he might have alternative plans. She missed the sound of his voice, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His scent, his touch, his quiet calmness.

For the first time in her life, she found herself actively missing someone.

The sensation didn’t fit comfortably, she thought, keeping her head down and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She watched her boots pound the pavement without really concentrating on where she was going. The eternally switched-on part of her brain guided her on autopilot where she needed to be.

Grit was forbidden, she reminded herself. For several valid reasons, the least of which was men were cruel, vicious beasts capable of doing horrible things when they lost control. Hell, half of them didn’t even need to lose control—they just enjoyed causing pain.

Nice on the surface wasn’t a guarantee of nice underneath.

The only way to protect herself was to remember not to trust anyone.

No matter how much she wanted someone to trust.

*

Grit

“What the hell do you mean, you haven’t seen her?”

Kneading the bridge of his nose, Grit gave his cooling pizza a longing stare. He’d had a bitch of a day, and Jasper verbally stripping his ass raw wasn’t adding sunshine and glitter to the shit.

“My job is to guard Elias, not babysit Tabitha. I haven’t seen her in a damn week, Jasper; you didn’t tell me to keep tabs on the girl.” Like he could, he thought with a silent scoff. Keeping tabs on her required a fucking GPS chip under her skin.

Pacing the living room, still in his jacket, he found himself growing concerned by Jasper’s tone. The man was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Tabitha’s sudden departure shouldn’t alarm him; disappearing and reappearing was her specialty, after all.

“Her contact in Ireland got tired of waiting for her to come through on the contract for Elias,” Jasper said without preamble. “They posted a lousy fifty-K hit out on her—not enough for the sharks to start circling yet, but it might entice some lower-level plankton into aiming for the higher rungs on the ladder.”

---