Page 64 of Moth to a Flame

Yeah, nothing about what happened over the last ten minutes was anywhere near legal. No one was following protocol when they let me through with a man’s severed toe packed in my leather satchel.

The guard who patted me down didn’t so much as pull out the pocket knife I brought with me for protection. Het let it slide.

They all pretended there was nothing beneath my black windbreaker jacket or my jeans that I changed into at home.

Fucking predictable. I almost laughed at the whole thing.

What’s not as yawn-inducing, however, is this moment.

“I’m not doing this.” Bobby, the uglier, younger, and bald version of his brother, crosses his arms over his chest. The orange jumpsuit clings to his bulky muscles, and his brown eyes narrow. “Not to him, not to anyone here.”

“Yes, you are.” I slide my hand into my bag, closing my fingers around the plain cardboard box. Only Regan gets the velvet ones. “Want to know why, you rapist motherfucker?”

Same narrowed eyes dart to the guard at the corner of the empty visiting area. It’s way past visiting hours, but money and a call from eight-toes Tripp to the warden took care of this problem.

Hence why the lady guard looks out the window at the gray light of the early afternoon. She’s not here to enforce the rules. She’s here, in this room with the concrete floor and round tables, to protect me.

I don’t need anyone to babysit me. I let her stick around anyway.

“Not interested in hearing it. I won’t do it.” He cocks an eyebrow that’s sliced down the middle. The scar looks new. He’ll have plenty of those by the time he’s out of here. “Unless you’re into wasting your breath, man. In that case, go right the fuck ahead.”

I’m not, in fact, into wasting my breath.

The echo of my box slamming against the table makes Bobby jump. The guard cuts a glance our way, and I answer her with a lift of my chin in a mind-your-business gesture.

She does, giving us the view of her back and her tightly pulled blonde hair.

With a finger on the top of the box, I slide it over to Bobby. “Open it.”

A faint, unpleasant odor rises between us since I got rid of the ice pack earlier. I wanted his brother’s toe to stink, for the threat to seem more real.

He eyes the box like there’s a snake in it. Doesn’t stop glaring at it when he whispers, “You can’t make me.”

“Open. It.” Though I’m not raising my voice, the severe quality of it has the same effect.

Bobby reaches toward it, his fingers trembling. Inch by inch, he lifts the lid and there it is. The look of acknowledgment. The horror flashing behind his eyes.

Yet he can’t turn away from it. Can’t seem to release the lid and hide the toe that clearly belonged to his brother.

I don’t have to explain anything. Birthmarks don’t lie.

“Is he alive?” His voice shakes.

“Yes.” Slowly, I drag the box toward me, shoving it back into my bag. “So are your parents. For the time being.”

“Fuck them.” The change in his demeanor is swift. “They haven’t visited me once. There’s only so much the warden can do for me here. I’m not risking my life for anyone.”

I go in for the kill. “Your 1969 Plymouth is safe too. It’ll stay that way unless I say so.”

At that, his face turns from red to purple in a matter of seconds. “You leave her out of this.”

My eyes go to his clenched fists on the table. I’m not impressed. When I lift my gaze to him, I show him just how bored I am with his little tantrum.

“You take Lester motherfucking Burkes’s penis out of commission, and I won’t have to do a damn thing.” Both my hands are splayed on the table. I lean forward, staring down at the piece of trash in front of me. “I’m expecting a confirmation in twenty-four hours. A photo. But please, twist my arm if you don’t believe me. Test me, and you’ll get your own set of photos.”

“Why me?” he whispers in defeat.

Because of your brother and his sick affinity to bleach. Because he demandedmy Reganto suffer through his torture and remain scarred for the rest of her life. Because he put my platform to bad use.

---