Page 28 of Demise

Paul speaks, “Would anyone like a drink?”

“Kinda early for us, but thanks,” Tony says.

I laugh.

“Something funny?” Tony asks.

“Yes, actually,” I reply, wondering who they’re trying to fool.

Henry says, “Where’s Carson?”

“He’ll be along,” I answer as I take my seat on the opposite couch, noticing another man standing against the wall. He’s slim, young, and dressed well. It’s clear he’s new.

“I’ll have a drink, brother.” I rest my arm back on the leather, folding my leg across my knee. I want to appear relaxed, unaffected by this meeting.

The room is dark, only lamp lit. One on the corner, two on the desk, and one across the room hanging above a Pollock. I wonder where Trig is. I called him back as soon as I left Bexley’s. He said he’d be right behind me.

I look over at Sweep coolly sitting beside me. He peers straight ahead, silent as usual. “Care for a drink, Sweep?”

He nods. I look back at Paul. He pours three drinks and then hands them to us. Keeping one for himself, he walks to the other side of his desk and unbuttons his blazer before taking his own seat. My brother is playing moderator, making sure both parties remain composed.

“You know, I’ve been wondering,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?” Tony replies. “What have you been wondering, Bones?”

My brow furrows and I look down at the floor, tilting my head. “How come I sat in a cabin tied to a fucking chair for what?” I look over at Sweep. “A little over a month?”

Sweep clears his throat. “That’s correct.”

I gaze at the two across from me. “And you motherfuckers couldn’t find me?”

“I swear we looked,” Tony says with a smirk.

I smile, chuckling a bit. “Yeah,” I say. “You looked.” I take a sip of my drink. Sweep downs his whole glass. The room is tight. I have an urge to snap both their necks.

“This is Zachery Crossen,” Henry pipes in, speaking of the man who hasn’t spoken yet.

“Well, don’t be shy, Crossen. Come on over and have a seat between your little buddies,” I say.

Crossen pushes away from the wall. Tony and Henry make room.

“You new to the force?” I ask him.

He nods.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes,” he says.

I arch a brow. “Why do you look like you’re about to piss yourself?”

He lifts his chin, his eyes bouncing from my blazer to my face. Not my eyes. “I hear you’re the devil.”

There are moments in a man’s life where the things he’s done flashes before him. This happens right before you die, they say. But I’d had it happen on several occasions, and I wasn’t dying during any of them.

One night before I’d fallen asleep, I stared up at the ceiling, observing the darkness swirling above me. The faces of the men I’d murdered were on display.

Some mornings after the water dripped from my face and I’d blinked it away, I’d widen my eyes. I’d looked at my reflection, and the suffering angel on my shoulder would ask me the age-old question,“Who are you and why have you done the things you’ve done?”

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