Page 13 of The Phantom's Vice

They weren’t the ones who came across the pitiful pup, half dead in a dirty puddle on the side of the road. They didn’t see what it was like when he was strong enough to lift his head, and the first thing he did was lick my ungloved hand in thanks. I would take every one of them down before I let them take Rupert from me, and he knows it. He loves me for it.

How do I know? He doesthisevery single time I come back. It’s the damnedest thing—it doesn't matter if it’s two minutes or two hours. He is alwaysthishappy to see my ugly mug.

“Hey, buddy,” I cheer, pulling off my gloves and giving him some of his beloved head pats. I run my fingers through his thick white fur, wishing I could feel the texture. Rupert has a beautiful coat, and Orion always says it’ssoft.

“Soft…” I murmur, rubbing the long white strands between my thumb and forefinger.I like soft. It’s a much nicer word thansharporcoarse.

After licking every inch of my face, Rupert pushes off me, letting out a littleboofnoise and taking off in the direction of the kitchen. I followdutifully, cocking my head as he proceeds to stand next to his empty food bowl.

“Boof!” Rupert chuffs, fixing those two different colored eyes on me. “Boof, boof!”

I cross my arms. “I know for a damn fact that Orion fed you. You can’t pull that shit on me.”

Rupert huffs, plopping his massive derriere onto the floor with a look that screamsfuck you, Dad.

I roll my eyes, grabbing a few treats from the container on the counter. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Rupert’s mouth spreads into a dopey smile, his tail moving a mile an hour as I offer the bacon-wrapped morsel to him. Snatching it from my palm, he runs off to the living room to devour his prey on his dog bed in peace.

“You’re welcome!” I call after him, laughing as he lets out another disgruntled huff before promptly ignoring me. With a sigh, I make my way to my computer lab, sitting down with a huff as I click open my folder on Brett. It's not the first time I’ve looked over her files, but this is the first time I actually feel my heart stutter as I pore over the gruesome details. Reading about her fucked-up childhood always sends a swell of rage through my veins, and I end up having to stop minutes later when the urgeto send my computer flying becomes too much to bear.

Taking a steadying breath, I focus, reminding myself that reacquainting myself with my obsession is necessary. When I’m sure my will is fortified, I let my eyes move across notes in her files. The first time Brett appears in the system is a month shy of her thirteenth birthday, when her mother mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth. After a few months of trying to find her with no leads, social services knew they had to find someplace permanent for Brett to live.

Her father, Bill “Billy” Thorpe, died in a trucking accident when Brett was just an infant, and neither her parents had any relatives fit enough to take in a young child, so the foster system was the only viable option left for her. After being bounced around group homes for a few months, she finally landed with a family who seemed like they were serious about adoption. Things were fine for a year or so, but as soon as Brett entered high school, her perfect record finally started to muddy. Fights at school. Suspension after suspension, followed by bi-weekly behavioral therapist appointments. These appeared to help her for a while, but after a few months, the fightsbegan again.

Instead of outright expelling Brett, her foster parents agreed to pull her out of school and enroll her in an online program so as not to tarnish her future reputation or hinder her access to colleges. Which seems like a fine solution—on the surface.

Delving into the records of her therapist sessions told otherwise. Even though Brett no longer had a school-appointed one, her foster mother thought she should continue with the family’s private therapist. Although she wasn’t getting into fights at school anymore, Brett found a myriad of other ways to behave badly. Getting caught sneaking in the house at all hours of the night, her eyes bloodshot and breath reeking of alcohol. Stealing money from her foster father’s wallet, getting into screaming matches with them and having a tantrum about practically every little thing—or so Nancy and Craig Porter alleged.

Based on Brett’s statements—which the therapist and Nancy stupidly wrote off—her foster father was a pedophiliac monster. Craig had been grooming her for years, waiting for the day Brett let her guard down enough to fill his sickest desires.

He never got that chance, though. Shortly after Brett’s sixteenth birthday, Craig Porter had an unfortunate hiking accident. When Craig failed toreappear after his usual Saturday hike, a missing person alert was issued. An entire search party combed the hiking trails of Moriton forest, desperately searching for Craig Porter, but after two days of nothing, the fire to find him was smothered by the knowledge that they were likely searching for a corpse.

Weeks later, an unlucky hiker came across the body on one of the main trails near the edge of the forest—despite the fact that very area had been combed over hundreds of times in the search for Craig. The police report states his body had been mangled in such a way that suggested this man endured the worst possible pain before he died. When they performed the autopsy, they found his balls in his stomach, his cock stuck down his windpipe, cutting off all oxygen—and, ultimately, the ruled cause of death.

Asphyxiation by dick. What a terrible way to go.

I skim over the rest of the files, seeing how she filed for emancipation at sixteen, found a shack in the poverty-stricken portion of Moriton with scraps she had been saving, got her GED and pulled her act together enough in community college to finish the last two years of her degree at Kantor University, the leading institution in criminal justice. A few yearsafter graduation, she got snapped up by the Moriton branch and put under the direct guidance of Jim Peterson. A few months later, andboom…she’s assigned to one of the most restricted cases in the history of the bureau. She’s clearly capable and brilliant, but these cases usually require years of politicking and crafty brownnosing before being awarded.

Strange. Very strange…

“Ghost?”

“Hm?” I turn in my seat, Brett’s files forgotten as I eye the fresh claw marks along Orion’s forearms. “What are those from?”

“What are what from?” He tucks his arms behind his back, trying to look innocent.No attitude today… he must want something.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me I have to get you another rabies shot.”

“What? No! Of course not… well, probably not. The point is?—”

“Orion.”

“What?” His lips tip in a sheepish grin. “Listen, I just came to ask if you’d know where to find any live worms.”

“Every time we have a conversation, I think it’s finally going to end normally. Sillyme,” I groan, holding my head in my gloved palms. “What do you need worms for?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I suppose not,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Try the Night Market. I sent my friend there once who was on a similar quest for pigeon food.”

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