Page 184 of Bad for Me

My lips turn down. “Sorry. Are you and the others doing okay? You look cold.”

Her right shoulder lifts. “Ain’t gonna cover up the goods, sugar. There’s no money in that.”

I slide a fifty-dollar note into her palm. “I was hoping I might pick your brain. What do you know about the man called Sinister?”

“Jesus Christ, girl, keep your voice down. That’s not a name you say out loud.” She grabs me by the shoulder and hauls me into a nearby alley, glancing wildly over her shoulder.

I lean back against the brick building and cross my legs. An exhaust vent rains heat down on us, and Mary’s shoulders relax as the warmth brings back some color to her cheeks. “He’s real, then?” I ask, searching her brown eyes. Close up, her age is more apparent. Her cheap box dye doesn’t fully cover the grays at her temples, and wrinkles line the edges of her mouth.

Her hands shake as she pulls a ratty box of cigarettes from her purse. After lighting it, she pulls in a deep drag and holds it before exhaling. “Yes, he’s real. He comes down here now and again. Drops off sandwiches and bottles of water.”

Wow. That, I wasn’t expecting. “Why are you scared of him, then?”

Mary shakes her head and takes another drag. “Have you seen the papers? The man’s a monster. He doesn’t just kill, he tortures. I wouldn’t want to be the one that captures his attention.”

My brows furrow. “But?—”

“Child, not all monsters are all bad. The Carver is one of ’em. If rumors are true, he enjoys the killing. But he also seems to give a shit about those of us with nothing.” She drops the butt on the ground and puts it out with her boot. “He doesn’t like people talkin’ about him and has ears everywhere. I don’t wanna know why you’re interested in him, but I’d be careful.”

“What about where he lives or what he looks like?”

Mary’s eyes grow big, and she backs away, shaking her head. “Dolly, you’re gonna get yourself killed. I’ll have nothin’ to do with it. Leave it alone.” With one last worried glance my way, she scuttles out of the alley and rejoins the others.

I make my way down the opposite end, coming out onto Dionysus Square. Out of the periphery, I notice a hand reaching for me, and I dodge out of the way. A short man, dressed in ratty clothes, peers at me with watery blue eyes. “The Carver’s coming for you,” he says with a cackle. He throws his arms out, tilts his head toward the stormy sky, and spins in a slow circle. “The Carver is coming for us all.”

A shiver of apprehension slides down my spine, and I hurry away, my feet eager to put distance between us. The entire way back to the warehouse, I feel eyes on me. I know there can’t be—it’s impossible—but logic doesn’t seem to be my friend right now.

Hysteria rides my back until I’m safely in the warehouse with the door bolted behind me. I suck in ragged breaths and try to shake off whatever has my blood in a frenzy. It was just some random man.Calm down. There’s no way you could be on Sinister’s radar.

Once my breathing returns to normal, I stride across the warehouse, pull open the hidden panel, and jog up the stairs to my room. The problem is, I don’t have enough information. But there is someone—two someones, actually—who might help.

There are advantages to being friends with hackers’ wives.

Throwing myself onto my mattress, I grab my laptop from under my pillow and boot it up. It’s seen better days but works well enough for what I need it to. In the top left corner, an icon of a red kiss with blood dripping from it glows with a pulsating light. I click on it, and the screen goes black before the picture clears, showing me a room I haven’t seen before. Sunlight pours through the windows of what is clearly a living room, making me frown. It should be dark outside.

“Hello?” I say, wondering if the connection went awry.

The room spins as someone on their end turns the laptop around. My face breaks into a smile when a pretty blonde woman around my age comes into view. She returns my grin with one of her own, her eyes lighting up when she sees me. “Dolly! How are you? It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you.” She sets the laptop on a table next to her so I can better see her.

“Is that Dolly?” another voice says, and a woman with curly brown hair and bright-aqua eyes peers into the screen. I give her a little wave, almost embarrassed at the attention.

“Move, bitches, I wanna say hi,” a third voice says. The woman it belongs to has brown hair and eyes, and tattoos covering one arm. She leaps over the back of the couch they’re sitting on, forcing herself between the other two.

Tessa, Rebecca, and Dutch. Or my guardian angels, as I call them. Two years ago, they stormed into Grammy Lockwood’s Home For Girls and obliterated the malicious guards who enjoyed tormenting us. I remember watching with a wide grin on my face as they took them out, one by one. While the other girls cowered in corners, I had crept closer to watch, and when they captured the cruel bitch that made our lives a living hell, I asked to help torture the cunt.

I enjoyed every second of it.

Does that make me as evil as them? I give a mental shrug. But I never hurt the innocent. Perhaps enjoying the bloodshed makes me fucked up. I’m sure the morality police would happily lock me away and throw away the key.

But they won’t do the hard work I’m willing to do. What Tessa, Rebecca, and Dutch do every day. Not everyone deserves life, to breathe the same as the rest of us. I fully understand the hypocrisy. I’m not a good person either. Thirteen people have lost their lives because of me. Maybe I don’t deserve to live, and perhaps one day, someone will take me out too. And that’s okay.

I refuse to feel remorse for taking the lives of pedophiles and abusers. I’ll willingly accept a place in hell if it means I can spare even one child from the horrors I faced.

My guardian angels know all about hard lives. Tessa’s parents and uncle routinely abused her. Rebecca grew up in a house full of horrors no child should ever endure. Dutch’s father was the ultimate monster—a villain so evil, he gave the devil himself a run for his money.

The justice system failed us all, as it routinely does for so many. They may call us murderers and vigilantes, but we do what the system refuses to—take out the trash. The world is a better place without them in it, and I won’t apologize for it.

The four of us make a little small talk before I get down to why I contacted them. “I was wondering if Eric or Trey might do a little research for me,” I ask. Eric is one of Tessa’s husbands—she has two—and Trey is Rebecca’s. Both are hackers and are scarily good at what they do.

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