Page 83 of Long Gone

“Murdering?” he asked. “It’s all semantics. They’re dead, and they’re dead because they both did some very bad things. The world is better off without them.”

“That’s called vigilante justice, Malcolm.”

“It’s called flat-out justice, Harper. And the reason you didn’t turn me in is because you agree with me.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped.

“Daniel Sylvester could have saved your sister from being murdered, but he took photos of her instead. His father covered it up. Then his punk ass brother kidnapped an innocent kid to set up his brother? What kind of sick ass mentality is that?” A hard look filled his eyes. “If you expect me to feel remorse for killing them, you’ll be very disappointed.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he should have let the justice system deal with them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“You know what I think?” he asked in his now-familiar smug tone.

“Do you really expect me to answer that question? It doesn’t matter what I say, you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“You’re right, because I think half your problem is you can’t accept who you really are.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I demanded, my temper rising. “That I should suck it up and just deal with my survivor’s guilt and losing the career I loved? Don’t you think I’m trying?”

“Not that,” he said, his voice gruff. “But losing your career has re-opened a chasm you can’t ignore.”

“For a guy who claims to hate talking about feelings, it feels an awful fucking lot like we’re doing that.”

“I was wrong when I said you’re too straight and narrow.”

I covered my chest with my hand in mock surprise. “Oh my God. Did you just admit to being wrong about something?”

“It happens occasionally,” he said good-naturedly. “But I was only partially wrong.”

“Of course,” I said sarcastically.

He ignored me and continued on. “You’re only trying to stay on the straight and narrow path. It worked while it worked, but what you’re really seeking is justice. That’s why you didn’t turn me in for killing the Sylvester brothers. If anything, you’re pissed that you couldn’t mete out the punishment with me.”

“That’s not true,” I said, even as the truth rose up inside me. yes. yes. yes.

“You’re upset that I did it without you.”

I shook my head, even as the voice inside me grew louder. YES. YES. YES. “I’m not a monster!”

But I was, wasn’t I? I wished I had been the one to pull the trigger and kill those men, especially the one who’d watched my sister suffer. Wasn’t that the definition of a monster?

“Like me?” he challenged, his voice a neutral tone.

“I never said you were a monster.” But was he a monster? I was sure he’d done things that would make him considered one, yet I couldn’t give him the label.

He slowly stood, then moved in front of me. I automatically rose, leaving my cup on the table. He set his next to mine and towered over me, his size making it clear that he’d win any physical altercation, yet I wasn’t afraid of him.

“Maybe you’d think I was a monster if you knew about all the things I’ve done.”

“You already admitted that you’ve killed men,” I said.

“I’ve done more than that.”

“I could tell my sister’s killer disgusted you when we saw him in prison,” I said. “You beat the shit out of him for gloating about what he did to her. I never once deluded myself into believing you did that for me. You did it for yourself.”

“Exactly. I did it for myself.”

“I know how you treat your staff at the tavern. They know you have their backs, and you care about their well-being.”

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