Page 26 of Cast Stones
He’d been foaming at the mouth when I’d taken a trip to his chambers to present him with a motion to dismiss due to insufficient evidence of guilt. I’d made his decision easy. After my chat with Detective Hunter, an anonymous package had turned up at my apartment containing the security footage from the bar that night. Turns out, Luca’s one-time drinking buddy was none other than Cain Moseley, not that Anderson ever bothered to check.The evidence was so conclusive, there was no way the prosecution could appeal.
A couple of days later, the press caught up and drew a line under the whole trial. Turns out the smug son of a bitch DA was screwing the lead detective on the case—the price of police corruption these days being a little anal play in the stalls of a cheap restaurant off Commercial Boulevard.
Every major news outlet in Florida received photographs of the two men devouring each other’s assholes like they hadn’t eaten in a decade. It was front page for a week. No one cared about a couple of damaged kids from a disbanded sex cult, though. The noise around the murders lost its volume after revelations of child rape came to light. Middle-class America doesn’t want to associate with that kind of tawdriness. They’d rather keep it hidden, while victims like me, Luca, and Cain are left to flounder in the darkness, fighting memories that bleed our souls dry, drip by painful drip. Instead, they’re happy to let others, like that bastard Jackson King, take advantage of our weakened state. They pay their taxes to sweep society’s problem children away from them.
Cain dealt with the verdict in his own way. Some people aren’t meant for the agonies of this world. Eventually, it becomes too much of a burden, and their backs break under the strain. His landlord found him swinging from the railing of his own staircase a couple of weeks after the trial. There was no note. No one to mourn him. His ending was as sad as the life he’d been dragged into twenty-five years ago.
I was the only person who attended his funeral.
No loved ones.
No Luca.
He’d walked out of the courtroom a free man and he’d never looked back—just like I’d begged him to—disappearing back into the shadows and leaving me more alone than ever. Overnight, he’d switched from being the accused to the sole witness, but he wasn’t hanging around to play nice with the people who’d falsely arrested him.
Determined to prove her copycat theory, Detective Hunter tracked him to another state, but after that, his trail dried up. I guess he’d finally had enough of Florida tainting him with the crimes of others, even if he did invite her wrath in there for a while.
I know now that was for my benefit…
What I don’t know iswhy.
* * *
It’s been two weeks since the trial ended. Time enough to toast a hollow victory, and a further fourteen days of losing my grip on reality.
My nightmares are worse. They’re spilling into my every waking thought. I find myself searching for trickles of blood in every room, and Jackson’s face has become a sick amalgamation of all the others, twisting and shapeshifting into a single demon’s. When I shut my eyes, though, all I see is my stupid self, chasing a ribbon into the arms of destruction.
I’m tired.
So damn tired.
I used to think that ribbon represented the bond between Luca and me. It doesn’t. It’s nothing but a cruel joke. He keeps yanking the truth out of my reach, no matter how quickly I lunge for it. He came back into my life for a reason, only to leave, and now the revelations are falling like snow in Vegas.
I need to know what happened that night.
Who’s really targeting the Disciples?
These unanswered questions consume me. I can’t concentrate on my caseload. I don’t hear the shitty names my colleagues call me anymore. I don’t see that rapist bastard, even when he’s sitting ten feet away, taunting me to report an assault he knows I never will. My silences will always be my weaknesses, and some men get the measure of that. Those are the ones who exploit and harm.
They’re the ones I dream of hurting the most.
Grady keeps asking if I’m okay. I swear he and his boyfriend think I’m on drugs, and I’ve noticed stuff is being moved around my room while I’m out. I wish I could tell them that this is far worse than a coke habit, that what’s inside me is killing me much faster and in the most horrible ways imaginable. It’s like torture from the inside out, and most of the time I’d rather be dead than alive.
Then, three days ago, the blackouts started.
They’re carnivores with teeth—pouncing when I least expect them to sink their canines into me—slashing me with terrifying visions and shaking me to the core. I see snapshots of the Divine Disciples murders, but nothing makes sense. They’re depicting crime scenes I don’t remember. Of eleven dying men all pleading for their lives.
Are these forgotten facts from the case? Fictions? Wild imaginings?
When I come around, I’m always standing in front of a bathroom sink, scrubbing invisible sin from my skin like I’m some kind of real-life, screwed-up manifestation of Lady Macbeth.
I’m getting clumsy too. Bruises have started appearing on my body, and I don’t remember the hits. My hands shake permanently like I’m an alcoholic… And then there was last night.
Last night was the worst.
My cell starts ringing.
Swiping for it, I manage to knock the dregs of my Starbucks latte all over my desk.
