Page 8 of The Lies We Steal

With a short shake of his head, “There wasn’t. It was just an overdose.”

I was almost glad he lied again.

Another sharp, murderously hard punch lands on the same place. This time, he really does spit out a tooth, maybe two. The weight of the brass knuckles makes my punches even worse.

This anger, the one I’m always so quick to release has been there a while, escaping every time I open my eyes. I’m angry at store clerks and drivers. Everything and anything.

And every time I throw these punches, every single time I’m hurting someone else, it’s them I’m picturing. The people who gave me my last name, and all the ones attached to it.

The ones who made me nothing but a spare.

I change my direction, digging a savage hit into his ribs, I swore my ears could hear them cracking inside of his chest. Bone crushing pain, that made me feel like I was on the best drug on the planet. Nothing could touch this euphoria.

“I was there, you fucking scum,” I spit out the words, “I saw her body before the police arrived. Her nails bloody and filthy from clawing at something. Bruised like she’d been held down. Are you going to lie to me, again? I promise if you do, you’ll regret it. Believe it or not, Howard, I’m going easy on you compared to what my friend will do.”

“I’m not lying,” His lungs wheeze for air, “I swear, all of my findings were in the report. That was all of it!” Blood drips from his mouth onto the stark white lab coat.

I wonder if when he pressed his slacks this morning he’d thought of getting blood on them later.

If he wanted to be difficult, then we could do difficult.

“Don’t say I never warned you.”

I turn my back on him, pissed I couldn’t get him to spill more information.

“He’s all yours.” I mutter.

Giving Thatcher the go-ahead to do whatever it was his twisted mind had come up with. I wasn’t so cruel that I would let him go first. I at least tried to give the good doctor a chance.

The click of his Oxfords bounce off the wooden floor. The weight of his sinister intentions vibrates off the walls of this office. I lean my back on the wall, resting there as I watch Thatcher take part in one of his favorite pastimes.

Making people bleed.

He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it onto the desk, while he takes his time rolling his sleeves up to the elbows. All of this a part of the mental game he plays.

We were a good contrast, he and I. He was cold and calculated. I was instinctive and hot-blooded cruelty.

The perfect pair of sociopaths.

Howard violently shakes his head, “Why do you even care?! Come on boys, think about this. If someone found out you assaulted me your futures would be ruined!” He argues frantically, “She’s just some rich girl. Just some dumb girl who overdosed, probably partied all the time, you know that type!”

The air runs cold, no sounds to be heard except for his labored breathing. From behind him, like silent water, Silas moves from the shadows. His black hood hiding his face as he grabs the back of Howard’s hair, twisting it sharply in his grip.

With one fluid motion, he jerks his head back, the doctor groaning in protest,

“Her name was Rosemary. And she was not just a girl.” His voice is coarse, not swift and sharp like Thatcher’s, or sarcastic like Rook’s. It’s coarse, rough, battered and beaten. It’s full of anguish and vengeance.

“She was mine. And now, you’re going to see what happens when someone fucks with things that belong to me.” He snarls in his ear.

Thatcher grabs the circular stool near the morgue table, sitting on top of it and rolling his way in front of the tied man. Similar to how a doctor would do when examining a patient. Silas backs up again, arms crossed leaning into the wall continuing to watch.

“You make a modest living don’t you Dr. Discil? Sixty grand a year? Presumably more here in Ponderosa Springs. That’s a pleasant life for your two sons, isn’t it? How old are they again? Five and ten?” He asks evenly, waiting politely for his reply.

While doing so, he lays out a black leather bag that’s rolled up. With relaxed hands he undoes the buckles on the side, flipping them up, and slowly starts to unroll them onto the desk. The metallic of the objects inside catches the moonlight, glimmering in the darkness like deadly stars.

“You twisted little shit…” Howard hisses, trying to jar himself out of the chair.

Thatcher's long, icy fingers run a path down his collection, back and forth, “I ask because your hands are vital to your work. I of all people know how important hands are to the art of dismemberment, so I correlate to you, Dr. Discil.”

---