Page 207 of The Catalyst

“I walked straight to our room, closed the door, turned on the television set to cancel out the noise, and used all my strength to swing my weapon. I started on his feet. It landed as intended, and I still remember the sound of his bones breaking and the way he screamed, being woken up in such a vicious way. He screamed profanities at me, clawed at my nightgown, and punched me right in the stomach, even though I was six months pregnant with our second child. It hurt so bad, but I knew if I didn’t finish the job, I’d be dead anyway.

“Even as he grabbed at me, I slammed the hammer down on the knee on his other leg. He was immobile. He and I both knew it, and he was completely at my mercy. The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. The narcissist knew he was going to die, and nothing he did would change that.

“I made my way up his body. I moved from his knees to his pelvis, his ribs, his hands, his wrists…His elbows and his shoulder before I finally reached my true target, marking the end of his torture–his lying, manipulative, heartless face. So much rage ran through my body that I screamed like a banshee as I brought the sledgehammer down on his face again and again. I lost myself in a cloud of blood, death, and destruction, running through that maze in my head of every single thing he put me through. When I was able to bring myself back to the land of the living, Vlad lacked his entire head. Somehow, within the chaos, I had also taken the hammer to his genitals. My job wasn’t over, but at least my tormentor was dead, and my son and I could live in peace without him.”

Vera lost her unborn child, a little girl she named Natalya. She was absolutely devastated, but she knew it was a risk she had to take. If she had died, her son would’ve been left to be raised by Vlad, and that’s a fate worse than death, her words.

Vera never remarried. Her mistrust of men ran too deep after what her husband did to her. That’s completely understandable and tragic. She barely trusted her son, so I knew it was a huge deal that she let Oliver hear her story. I appreciated it, and so did Ollie. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that her hatred for Ollie directly stems from Vlad. It makes sense. Vera’s dead husband sounds like a psychotic prick, but Ollie would never put me through what Vlad did to her. Vera Gusev is by far the strongest woman I have ever met, even if she is oddly particular. I don’t think I’d survive what she has, yet I know I will be living something similar really soon.

“Beth? You zoned out for a minute,” Judy says cautiously.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking about Vera and what Vlad did to her. She is truly an inspiration. Her strength is something to admire.”

“Yeah, she is. Can you believe she’s the black sheep of the family? And all because she refused to remarry after he died,” Judy scoffs.

Yeah, hedied. No one knows that it was Vera instead of a disappearance during a hunting excursion. Only me and Ollie.

“Yeah.”

Judy diverts the subject back to a previous topic with practically no segway, like always. “Are you happy though…with Oliver?”

I smirk from her question as I lean my head against the railing of the steps. “So deliriously happy. I could be happy spending the rest of my life with Oliver Doyle.”

“Is it safe to say that you’re completely over Nigel, then?” she asks, her voice hesitant.

Her words steal my breath as I stare up into the trees. I can be inexplicably happy with Oliver and still love Nigel. I’m happy, but Nigel is a part of my past.

“No, of course not. I think I’ll always love Nigel, but that doesn’t change how great things are between me and Oliver. He’s perfect. Batshit crazy, but he’s perfect for me. Nigel and I were so toxic together. I don’t see a way either of us could ever go back there.” I shrug, knowing I sound absolutely insane.

She’s been acting so strange today, and I don’t know what to make of it. Why was she asking about Nigel?

Suddenly, my phone rings, and I lift it up before seeing my psychopath’s name flashing across the screen. Pressing the green button, I put it to my ear with a big smile across my face.

“Hey, crazy man. Are you headed home already? Your shift isn’t supposed to be over for another three hours.”

Oliver got a job in town to help pay our way out here, and obviously, he wasn’t going to let me get a job. I told him it was quite sexist for him to go out and get a job while I stayed in our cabin, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. It wasn’t sexist and we both know it. He’s looking out for our baby, and if Nolan finds out about me getting a job in Montana, the jig will be up. I bet he has an alert set up for my social security number or some shit. I bet he didn’t think to keep Oliver under watch or has even noticed his absence.

“Baby,” Ollie starts, sounding completely out of breath and panicked. I’m immediately on high alert. “Whatever you do, don’t go on social media or talk to anyone from Grove Hill. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

CHAPTER 82

OLIVER

Have I mentioned lately that I hate people? I don’t mind saying that for the millionth fucking time. I hate everyone in this stupid state except my crazy girl and maybe the old bag. Her craziness is starting to grow on me. I can accept people being batshit crazy. I can accept people being sadistic fucks out for their own satisfaction.

What I cannot stand is slow-ass motherfuckers who take an hour to hand over the cash for a job well done, especially when such payment is three hundred bucks, and said patron is paying in single bills.

It takes a lot of restraint not to strangle this old-timer who should’ve been put out of her misery two decades ago. I could so easily snap her neck, and the only thing stopping me is the image my brain conjures up of the look on Beth’s face if she had to see my ass in handcuffs.

Woosah.

Woooooosah.

Woo-fuckin-sah.

Woo-I’m-gonna-turn-this-grandma-into-a-breadloaf-sah.

I think of every negative thing my woman would have to go through if I murdered this woman, and it’s sobering. Things I never thought about enter my mind until the boomer hands over the wad of cash, and I rush to give her the receipt. My gaze jumps up to the clock mounted on the wall. I’ve done that seven times in the last hour. Does it say how crappy my job is that all I can think about is making it to my break right now?

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