Page 9 of Don't Speak
He opens my car door, waits until I’ve slid all the way into the seat, and then he closes it. He stands there momentarily before walking to his car parked across the lot. Starting the engine, I can’t help but watch him walk away, that curiosity coming back to bite me. As soon as he gets into his own car, I put mine in drive and start pulling out of the lot.
The entire way home, I can’t help but replay the events from tonight in my head. The way Dean grabbed that guy, the way he protected me, the way he threw him out… I’m still curious as to what was said to the guy. He seemed freaked out, his color having drained from his face like that. I guess I’ll never know since the red-headed man is no longer allowed in the bar.
But that’s not the only thing I can’t stop thinking about. Because what did the red-headed man mean by, “I know you had something to do with Eric’s disappearance?”
Dean
Today would have been the perfect day. I woke up early, went to the interview, got the job, and started my training that afternoon. I could see the way she relaxed every time she turned around to find me taking care of a task I knew was already on her list. The way her steely eyes softened each time she was about to bark an order at me only to find I'd already taken care of it. Taken care of HER. I wasn’t going to be another reason she needed to stress. Ben told her that Eric had texted him that he was leaving due to a family emergency. I sent him that text right before I removed the SIM card from Eric’s phone and tossed it out the window while driving home from my littlesession. Good riddance. Watching the life drain from his body was immensely satisfying, and I hope he’s rotting in Hell.
Working with Nikki has been a breeze. I haven’t talked much, but she hasn’t minded. A few simple conversations here and there, and we’ve been working like a well-oiled machine. That is until I saw that red-headed shitbag from the other night, the one Eric was talking to. I knew something was up by the smuggrin he had on his face while waiting in line. I quietly dismissed myself to walk around the bar, waiting to see if he was going to pull a stunt. He did, unsurprisingly. At first, it was all verbal. I’m not a fool. Nikki can handle herself, and I love letting her. However, the second he put his hands on her, I saw red. Hetouchedwhat ismine.When I leaned in and whispered, “Count your days, bitch,” I saw the color drain from his face. He knew I was serious, and he practically cowered in my hands.
He’slucky he left the bar in one piece, but I didn’t need to cause a scene. I don’t want witnesses to place me with him during a heated moment, and he ends up missing shortly after. No. I let him go home, thinking he was simply just thrown out of a bar. But later? Oh. Later, this motherfucker is mine.
CHAPTER TEN
Lock picking is an art form. Ensuring you can get it done efficiently and in a timely manner without anyone seeing you is no easy feat. I managed to get into the apartment in under fifteen seconds, a new record for me. So here I am, standing in James Bradford’s apartment, also known as the redhead from the bar. Once we closed down the bar, there was only one remaining tab left open. Considering I threw him out before he could close out, that left his tab as the only one remaining. From there, it wasn’t hard to gather where he lived. It is a small town, after all.
I waited outside for a bit before entering. It wasn’t until James posted to his social media that he was out at a friend’s house party after being kicked from the bar that I decided I had enough time to enter. He would come home eventually, and when he did, he’d be mine.
I walk around, giving the place a good once-over. The sink is full of dirty dishes, clothes are strewn all over the place, and it reeks of body odor and old food. It’s just as I imagined it would be, dirty and disgusting. I don’t know how this guy expects to bring women here. One look at this place, and they would run for the hills.
Snooping through his bedroom, I check out his nightstand. There’s nothing of significance. Condoms, empty beer cans, some sleeping pills, and old food wrappers occupy the space. Closing the drawer, I move to his dresser. Again, underwhelming. Nothing but tighty-whities with skid marks and socks. Closing this drawer, I move out to the living room’s entertainment center. Opening the cabinets, I notice a large collection of what appear to be homemade DVDs. Ignoring the pit in my stomach, I go ahead and grab one, pulling it out of the case and inserting it into the DVD player connected to the TV and pressing play.
Suddenly, I’m staring at a petite blonde girl, black streaks running down her face as though she’s been crying. She’s gagged and bound, strapped by each of her limbs to the corners of the bed. I don’t recognize the bed in the video, but I can tell that it’s not James’. She’s screaming behind the gag while three men look at her with the most sadistic expressions on their faces. Immediately, I recognize the three men, two of whom I’ve come to know as Eric and James. I make a mental note to add this third motherfucker to the list soon.
As the disc plays, each of the men is shown having their way with her, and each of them threatens physical violence ifshe were to tell anyone what happened. My blood boils, and it’s taking everything in me not to smash this TV. I pace the floor and fast-forward the disc to the end. I need to know if they leave her alive or not. Once they are each done, they unstrap her from her restraints and tell her to get dressed. Her eyes seem so lifeless. Like every ounce of dignity she had was gone in an instant. Like she has nothing else to give to the world. My heart breaks for her, the familiarity of it all rushing back in a wave. I fight to push those feelings aside and turn the disc off. I’ve seen enough to know what to expect from the rest of them. I vow to make this one extra painful.
Moving along to the rest of the apartment, I make a pit stop at the photos on the wall. Family photos of what I assume are of him and his mom hang on the grimy grey walls. They look happy, likely not having a clue about how horrible a human her son is. There are some from when he was a child, playing on the school’s football team. Others are from college, partying at a fraternity. Moving along the wall, looking at the rest of them, I’m suddenly stunned in place. There, on the wall, hangs a photo of James and a man on a fishing trip. They’re on a boat out in the middle of an ocean, and James is holding up what looks to be a massive tuna. Standing next to him is none other than the man I’ve been dying to kill for seven years. The man who took someone from me. The man who led me to Nikki. I stare blankly for a second because I’m still not sure I’m seeing things correctly. How could they know each other? Does he know about his and Nikki’s connection? Has James been in contact with him?
The plan has suddenly changed. It appears that James will get to live another day. While I’d love to kill him now, I need to know if I can use this connection to find the man I’ve been looking for. He has to know something, and if I kill him now, I may never get answers. I glance over the apartment once more,ensuring nothing is out of place that would raise suspicion. Locking the door behind me, I make my way back to my car. Once inside, I start the engine and just sit there, still in disbelief at what I just discovered. I am not easily caught off guard, my profession making it dangerous for that to occur, but I can honestly say that I did not see that coming.
Putting the car in drive, I head to my own apartment. My mind is spinning the entire time, replaying everything that just happened over and over again in my mind. I need to know. I need to know the connection.
Because why the fuck was James standing next to Sean Edwards in that fishing photo?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Seven years ago
The pub is packed tonight, and I’ve been busting my ass non-stop to get these drinks out. There’s a live band tonight, and the drinks seem to be flowing. I’ve been back for a little over two years now, helping Stan while he undergoes chemo treatment. He refuses to stop working, the stubborn asshole, but this way, I can take some of the load off him. Stan, the pub owner, let me work here through college. My father left the moment I turned eighteen, and we were barely getting by as is. Stan let me live inthe loft above the pub while I worked and went to school. He’s sort of taken up residence as a father figure since mine was a piece of shit anyway.
My father and mother were constantly fighting, and one day, he left for work and just never came home. Never called, never wrote, just poof. Gone. My mother never really recovered after that. She became depressed, spending days in bed until she found out she was pregnant a few months later. She got her shit together just long enough to give birth and raise my sister well for the first few years. Then, when my sister was six, she found out that my father was getting remarried. That sent her into a downward spiral she hasn’t recovered from. She drinks herself into a stupor most nights, but she at least ensures that Charlie is fed and taken care of beforehand. I’ve been checking in on her daily for the last eight years, making sure she has everything she needs. I’ve tried to get custody of her several times, but the court deems my mother fit for parenting for some reason, so I just do what I can. Just another example of the broken justice system.
My sister is fourteen now. We have a close bond, and I will always make sure she is protected. I told her she could come live with me the second she turns eighteen, that I’ll find a place for the two of us, and she could go to college. She hates living with our mother, and I don’t blame her.
The music rages, and the lights bounce off the walls. I finally get a little reprieve from having to make drinks when I feel a vibration in my pocket. Pulling out my phone, I check to see who it is, but I don’t recognize the number. I let it go to voicemail, thinking that if it is important enough, they will leave a voicemail.
Pocketing my phone again, I walk to the cash register where I left my own drink. I pick up my glass of water and take a sip. As I place it back down, my phone vibrates again. It’s oddbecause I don’t usually get this many phone calls in general, let alone twice in a row this late at night. I take my phone back out of my pocket and check the caller ID. It’s the same number as just a few minutes ago. I feel a weird sense of dread wash over me, deciding to answer it this time.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Hello. Is this Dean Miller?” the feminine voice asks.
“Who’s asking?” I respond curtly.
“This is Detective Walsh from the Montgomery County Police Department. I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about your sister, Charlie.”
My heart sinks, and my vision blurs. “What about my sister? Is she okay?”
