Page 126 of Lucky's Trouble

I return to towering over him as a sheen of sweat blossoms on his brow, and his gaze bounces around to everything but me. He pries his hand from under mine and reaches to his neck, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Even through the hanging skin on his throat, I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“S-she’s the daughter of two of our members. I haven’t seen her in years, but from what I remember, she was a deeply troubled girl.”

Removing my backpack, I set it on his desk and unzip it, not showing any reaction. He takes my silence to mean he hasn’t told me enough and keeps going as I pull out a rope and zip-tie cuffs.

His words come fast and furious. “Even from a young age, she was a pathological liar. Her parents did all they could to change her behavior, and when nothing worked, they brought her to me. I worked with her for almost a year and thought we were making progress until she came up with a truly disgusting lie about me. After that, it was no longer appropriate for me to intervene.”

Even after he finishes, I remain quiet, unclipping my knife and setting that on the desk as well.

With comically wide eyes, he blubbers, “I don’t know what she told you, but you can’t trust anything she says. Like I said, she’s troubled. She even influenced her twin sister to lie. If I could just talk to her—”

“Shut the fuck up, you lying piece of shit,” I say lowly, and his mouth snaps closed.

White hot rage burns through me as I think about how Tinleigh must’ve felt when the people who were supposed to protect her betrayed her in the worst way. She was just a fucking kid, and they gaslit her and blamed her for everything. It’s a goddamn miracle she survived.

“Beautiful family.” I pick up a framed photo on his desk. Standing in front of a white temple are twenty or more adults and kids, including his wife. It’s eerie how perfect they look, like a fucking Stepford family with robotic smiles and not a hair out of place.

It makes me think of the photo we took this last Christmas. It’s a fucking chaotic scene with hardly anyone looking at the camera, my brothers in their cuts and bottles of beer in hand, the women pointing to the camera, failing to get us to pay attention, and Tyson front and center with his middle finger waving through the air.

Now that is a family portrait.

“Yes.”

I set the picture down right in front of him. “If you want to see any of them again, you better start being honest.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Let’s start with how many.”

“How many what?” he asks, still not taking me seriously.

I sigh. “You live on Woodlands Drive. Your wife’s name is Gloria, and your kids are Daniel, Michael, Josephine, Madelyn, and Trinity. I could tell you your grandkids’ names, but they got just as creative as Tinleigh’s parents, and I can’t remember them all. However, give me a second, and I’ll pull out my notes so I can prove to you I know more about you than you want a man like me to know.”

“No.” He shakes his head furiously. “I believe you.”

“Then tell me how many girls you’ve molested,” I demand.

His shoulders slump and his eyes dampen, turning red. “I don’t know. I didn’t keep track.”

“That many, huh? And still, you sit in a position of power?”

“I know my sins, but that’s between me and my God.”

“Not anymore, it ain’t. It’s between you and me.” I pull out my phone and ring Satyr, positioning the asshole’s laptop in front of me.

“You got it?” Satyr asks.

“Yeah. Just tell me what to do.”

It only takes a minute for me to grant Satyr control of the device, and only five more for him to find the proof we need. Men like this asshole enjoy reliving their abuse almost as much as the experience itself, so it’s not surprising to find voice recordings of his sessions.

When Satyr hits play on one to make sure we’re right, the sound of this predator pours from the speakers. Tears stream down his reddened face as he listens to himself ask a girl if she’s had impure thoughts. She’s clearly uncomfortable and embarrassed as she admits to having a conversation with her friends about sex. When he demands she detail that conversation and tell him how it made her feel, Satyr stops the recording.

We don’t need to hear more to know it gets worse from here; I’m grateful I don’t have to be the one to listen to it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whimpers pathetically. Shame is written all over his features, but it’s not even close to the punishment he deserves. Even what I’m about to do to him isn’t enough. If I had it my way, I’d bring him to the kill room at the ranch and take my fucking time carving him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Unfortunately, I have to be smart, so knowing he’s not around to hurt anyone else will have to do.

“I’ll download the files before I back out of the system and clear my trail. Just leave that up on the screen. Hopefully, someone thinks to look at the laptop, but if they don’t, I can send the files to the cops anonymously later on,” Satyr says.

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