The shower spray turns pink as I guide Naomi under the warm water, keeping my movements methodical despite the way my hands want to linger. Blood runs in rivulets down her freckled skin, disappearing into the drain. Her dress lies discarded on the bathroom floor, the cheerful purple flowers now stained dark with death.
I focus on washing her hair first, working shampoo through the tangled red curls. My fingers massage her scalp with careful pressure, trying to ease some of the tension from her rigid muscles. She stays silent, pliant under my touch, green eyes fixed on some middle distance.
The bruises on her body stand out stark against her pale skin. Each one feeds the fury building in my chest, but I keep my touch gentle as I clean away the evidence of violence. I run a washcloth down her arms, across her shoulders, careful to remain respectful.
She’s beautiful even now, vulnerable and broken in my shower, and I hate myself for noticing. For the way my body responds to her closeness despite the horror of the situation. She’s my son’s wife—wasmy son’s wife. She deserves better than an old man’s inappropriate desires.
I keep my eyes averted as much as possible while still being thorough, maintaining what little dignity I can for both of us. But I can’t help cataloging each new bruise, each healing scar—building evidence of Lucas’s cruelty.
The water runs clear now, but her undergarments are still soaked through with blood. Evidence that needs to be destroyed.
I close my eyes, steeling myself. “Naomi, I need to...” My voice catches. “These need to come off too.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink. Just stands there, water streaming down her face, arms wrapped around herself.
My hands shake as I reach for the bra clasp. The hooks catch, refusing to release, and I fumble like a teenager. Finally, it gives way. I slide the straps down her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the shower floor. Her panties are next. I hook my thumbs in the elastic as I guide them down her legs.
She steps out of them mechanically when I tap her ankle. I grab both items and toss them aside with her ruined dress, forcing myself not to look at her naked form. Not to notice theconstellation of freckles across her shoulders or the curve of her waist.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about desire. This is about keeping her safe. About washing away the evidence of what my son forced her to do.
I grab a fresh towel from the cabinet, holding it open. “Come on, lovely. Let’s get you dry.”
Once she’s dry, I wrap her in my robe—which swallows her small frame—and guide her to sit on my bed. Her hair drips onto the collar, darkening the fabric. She looks impossibly fragile and way too broken for a woman of twenty-eight years.
I retrieve clean clothes from her room, choosing soft, warm things. Eli arrives as I’m helping her dress, his knock a pre-arranged pattern that identifies him.
“Stay here,” I tell Naomi, though I doubt she hears me. “I’ll be right back.”
Eli takes in the scene with professional detachment. “Self-defense?”
I give him a single nod. “He broke in. Tried to kill her.”
“She got him first.” There’s approval in Eli’s voice. He knows Lucas’s reputation. “Sandra will make trouble.”
“Sandra.” Her name tastes bitter on my tongue. “She’ll want blood for this.”
Eli grunts in agreement, already pulling supplies from his kit. “Your ex-wife’s full of venom.”
My hands curl into fists. Twenty-five years of Sandra’s manipulations flash through my mind. She’d turned Lucas against me after the divorce, poisoning him with lies until he saw me as worthless. She’d gotten custody easily, thanks to her father’s connections—a judge who owed him favors and character witnesses who painted me as violent and unstable.
I’d tried to stay in Lucas’s life anyway. I showed up at his baseball games and sent birthday cards. But Sandra madesure he threw them away unopened and that he believed I’d abandoned him.
“She’ll spin this,” I say, jaw clenching. “Turn Naomi into some kind of black widow who seduced her precious boy. She won’t care that he was beating her. Won’t believe it even with proof.”
The familiar rage burns in my gut. Sandra never saw Lucas’s faults, even when they were right in front of her. She’d enabled his worst impulses, praised his cruelty as strength. And now she’ll use every resource she has at her disposal, call in every favor, to make Naomi pay for defending herself.
I glance toward the bedroom where Naomi sits, still lost to shock. The protective instinct rises fierce in my chest. I won’t let Sandra destroy another life. Not this time.
“Let me worry about Sandra. Stage it like a drug deal gone bad.” I outline the plan quickly. “He’s been hanging with the wrong crew. They’ll make likely suspects.”
Eli nods. “I’ll handle disposal. You focus on her. Any chance she’ll talk?”
I look toward the bedroom again. Naomi still hasn’t moved. “No. She’s in shock. Probably won’t remember much anyway.”
We work methodically, efficiently. Years of practice make the cleanup almost routine. Lucas’s body goes into Eli’s van, wrapped in plastic. The floor returns to its clean state with industrial-grade products. We replace the door frame with ease. The hardest part of the cleanup is bathing my cat, Powder.
I gather essential items while Eli plants evidence in Lucas’s car—drugs, money, a burner phone with suspicious contacts. One of our men will follow Eli in it to a staged location.