Page 58 of Stone Rules

Chapter Twenty-six

It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen his face. Three weeks of daily phone calls from Piper, talking me into staying in New York for one more day. Three weeks of forcing myself not to throw my clothes into a suitcase and leave everything behind.

Although I haven’t seen hisface, I did catch a glimpse of the back of Ethan’s head last Monday as he was walking to the gym offices. Apparently poker nights are still a thing. But nobody talks about it. Nobody talks abouthim. Not even Jarod, and he’s related.

I was too ashamed of myself to tell Piper what happened in the storeroom at the club that night. I cleaned myself up and found her sitting at our table nursing another bottle of water. She told me I looked like hell and maybe we should call it a night. I was grateful that I didn’t have to explain why I wanted to leave. I was grateful that I didn’t run into Zach on the way out. I was grateful that I could just go home and forget the horrible night ever happened.

So that’s what I do with my days—try to forget. Forget Ethan. Forget Zach. Forget my mom and dad. Forget that appalling list.

The problem with trying to forget things, is that all you really do is remember them.

I reach over to my bedside table and grab my eye mask, putting it on to shield myself from the mid-afternoon sun shining through my window. No offense to Piper, but sleep has become my best friend. It’s the one place I’m at peace. Unlike Piper, I’ve never had nightmares about my past, and if I dream, I don’t remember.

My phone chimes, alerting me to an e-mail. Annoyed by it, but wondering who would be emailing me, because as Piper said, I know about two people, I grab it and tap the screen. When I see who the text is from my body tenses. The sender of the email is Gretchen. And the subject is ‘Final list of names.’

Oh, God. I know what that means. It means they found the last four men. It means Karl Salzman’s name will be among them. The thought of all twelve of them makes my skin crawl, but him—he’s the one who took something from me I could never get back. It was his vile touch that stole whatever innocence I had left.

I say a silent prayer before I open the email. I pray he is dead. I pray he is dead and buried and being eaten by maggots and worms. That he is rotting in hell along with my mother where they are probably Satan’s right hand man and woman.

I open the attached files and my heart skips when the word DECEASED is written in diagonal bold letters across the front of one of the pages. But upon further inspection, it’s not Karl’s name on it. It’s Joe Mitchner’s. I can’t help but feel relief that one of these men is no longer walking the earth, but at the same time, I’m disappointed it’s not Karl.

The second page details information on John Taylor. He’s moved out of state and now resides in Utah. I find myself wondering if he’s one of those men with ten wives and twenty-four kids. I cringe thinking about it.

Next is Steven Smith. The document says they aren’t one-hundred-percent sure he is the right Steven Smith but that they’ve exhausted all avenues and this one came the closest to having ties with my mother. He also has moved out of state, but is at least more accessible, being in Massachusetts. Still, he’ll have to wait.

I click on the last attachment, my heart pounding because I know whose it will be. When the name pops up, I wince. When my eyes fall to his last known address, I don’t know if I should be upset or happy. He lives in White Plains, just a thirty-minute cab ride from here. Should I feel fortunate he lives close enough to confront him, or scared because of what I know I would like to do to him?

I pull my mother’s diary from the nightstand and leaf through it until I find the page I’m looking for.

June 11, 2009

I have to up my game with Salzman. He’s got even more clout than Morgan and J.T. combined. The man knows people. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve slept with him, and Dewey said he’s going to cut me off if I keep giving away all the good shit he gets me. You’d think with all Karl’s connections, he’d be able to score his own shit. The last time he was here, he promised me a sit-down with the producer of a famous book that was being made into a movie. Said they were looking for a mid-thirties female lead. So what if I’m not technically in my thirties anymore? I could pass for it and that’s all that matters. Plus, with makeup and all the computer-generated technology these days, anyone can look ten years younger than they are. They’d be lucky to get me. Hell, with my resume, they should be begging me for the job. But my asshole agent refuses to book me any auditions that aren’t within five years of my true age. I think it’s time to look for another agent. When Karl texted me he was coming over tonight, he asked if my daughter was going to be here. Damn Charlie, even the ones I want for myself seem more interested in her. She’s grown so tall and developed so early. I thought I’d kept her hidden from Karl. I’m sick of all these guys paying more attention to a fucking fifteen-year-old than someone who’s won not one, but two Oscars. Maybe if I just let him have her, he’d get it out of his system. You know, kill two birds with one stone—I get the part, he gets her.

My blood boils thinking back on that day. I throw the diary across the room and watch as it hits the wall and falls to the floor, all the while wishing it were Karl’s head. Adrenaline is pumping through me when I slip into my jeans and t-shirt. Then I pull a hoodie over my head before I gather up what I need and head out the door.

I catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror of the cab, realizing I forgot the ball cap in my haste to leave. But at this point, I’m too far invested to care. I don’t care if he knows who I am when he sees me. I would actually prefer him to be looking into my eyes when I do what I need to do.

The thirty-minute cab ride out of the city seems to take hours. All the while, I go over different scenarios in my head. All the while, I trace the outline of the hard metal in my hoodie pocket.

I have the cabbie drop me at the end of the street, not even asking him to wait. I still don’t know what I plan to do or how long I plan to be here. I want to check the place out before I make any decisions. It’s a private residence. This is White Plains, after all. Not a crack house, like Clint lived in. Not a townhouse like Tony. Not a busy apartment building like Morgan. No, this house is an affluent single-family home on a large lot surrounded by, of all things, a goddamn white picket fence.

I walk by the home, casing it stealthily. I can see beyond the fence into a backyard that has a swing set and my stomach clenches. Kids.Fuck.

I realize it’s not quite five o’clock. The guy probably won’t even be home. He has to have a good job to afford a place like this. I find myself walking around the block a few times, talking myself out of things then talking myself back into them.

The third time around the block, I see a car approach his house. It’s a nice car. A Land Cruiser, I think. The garage door to the home opens and the car pulls inside. Then I have to keep myself from hyperventilating when Karl Salzman emerges from the garage, walking to the mailbox like he’s Mister fucking Rogers. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he’s never raped a teenage girl.

He doesn’t even notice me as I come around the bushes and walk towards him. He’s too engrossed in opening a piece of mail. I almost make it into the garage behind him, but the garage door comes down before I can put my hand out to stop it.

My skin still crawling at the sight of him, I walk up the steps to his front porch and pound on the door. Moments later he opens it, the smile on his face falling faster than the time it takes me to reach into my pocket.

“Oh, God,” he says, turning his head to look behind him.

When he turns back around, I have a gun pointed in his face.

“Wait, don’t,” he begs, holding his hands out to plead with me. “Don’t.”

Bile rises from the pit of my stomach, burning my throat. My hands are shaking so hard, I’m not even sure I could hit him with a bullet even though we’re only feet apart. “Funny,” I bite at him, “when I said those very words to you, you ignored me. Why should I listen whenyousay them?”

---