Page 65 of Quiet Rage
He came here to fuck her. Probably to kill her. He thought he had that right.
Recognition crosses his features before my fist connects with his nose. “You motherfucker!” My next punch is straight to hisbreadbasket, sending all of the air out of his lungs in one big run, doubling him over.
But he recovers quickly, throwing an arm up to block my next punch, driving a fist into my ribs when my side is exposed. Blood drips down his face, but that doesn’t keep him from delivering a roundhouse to my jaw.
I barely feel it. Adrenaline is pumping, fueled by hate. I hate this motherfucker. I hate him for what he wants to do to her. For not being able to let it go. “Can’t say it’s just a job now, can you?” I growl, shoving him hard against the wall under the kitchen window. When he tries to push away from the stucco surface, I take him by the shoulders and shove him harder, making his head bounce off the wall.
But it’s when my hands close around his neck that his eyes bulge like this is serious. “Wait,” he chokes, pounding at my arms, shoulders, ribs, anything he can reach.
“You just couldn’t stay away,” I grunt close to his face. The light from the bulb over the door makes his blood look black compared to the shade of red his skin is turning.
“I…know…” he wheezes. He’s still trying to fight, but he’s getting weaker. “Who…killed…”
“I don’t fucking care.” I press my thumbs against his windpipe, ready to end it.
“Mom!” It’s a croak, weak, pitiful. “Killed…your mother…”
It is the only thing he could’ve said to stop me. The one and only thing to make me let go of his worthless neck. He gasps, sagging, coughing. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I whisper, panting, resisting my urges.
He shakes his head at first, holding up a hand, coughing every time he tries to breathe. “Spit it out,” I demand, taking him by the shoulders and hauling him upright.
“Your mom.” It’s nothing more than a throaty gurgle. “I know who killed her.”
“She died in a car accident, fucker.” The back of his head taps the wall again when I shake him. “Nice try.”
He gives his head a quick shake. “No. No accident.”
He’s making it up. Trying to buy a few more seconds of his worthless life. “And the Easter Bunny is real,” I reply.
“I’ll tell you who did it. But you have to let me go when I do.” He has to sense my indecision and doubt, because the words come out quickly, on top of each other while he rubs his throat. He knows he doesn’t have much time. “I will. I know who did it, and I know why. Only if you swear you’ll let me go.”
“Who was it? And why?”
“It was your father.”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“Do you really think he wouldn’t?” He even laughs. “You know who he is. You know what he can do. She was going to take you away, because she knew, too,” he whispers through coughs that twist his face with the pain he deserves. “She knew. She wanted to take you away from him. So he stopped her. That’s the truth.”
It’s not possible.
I know who he is.
I remember his grief.
But was it grief? Was it really an accident?
Nobody denies him.
In the middle of so much confusion and so many questions, only one thing is clear.
Dante’s eyes bulge again when my hands ring his neck again. “No!” he wheezes, stunned at my betrayal. The stupid shit. Like I had any intention of letting him go.
This time, there’s no mercy. Not until his body sags, eyes still open and staring blankly at me. The only truth I know is her protection. There’s no way he would give up if I left him alive. I don’t know if he was telling the truth. I only know she’s safe from him when his body hits the ground in a motionless heap.
For now, the only thing I can do is pick him up and drape him over my shoulder before going in through the back door. It’s unlocked—Jesus fuck, it would’ve taken him nothing to go in and do whatever he wanted. We’re going to have to have a talk about safety.
Just days ago, Tamson was lying on her back across this table. Now it’s Dante, whose body I’ll have to figure out a place to stash later.
