Page 221 of Vicious Saint
Even a Lincoln.
But my focus is mostly on the Escalades.
Comparing each with the few I’ve spotted around Riverside and the mansion. No matches so far, but that doesn’t stop me from writing down the plates on the back of a receipt.
I go on this way…bouncing between staring at papers and computer screens until the obsession leaves my eyes burning red. So, once the run through of Nikolai’s criminal history is at its end, I call it quits for the night and organize the folders.
I’m about to slide them back in the drawer when I notice another manilla folder staring me in the face—this one sealed and not labeled.
“Well…well…well. What do we have here?” I slap the pile down on the desk then reach for the loner, ripping it open on my lap.
What I find hits me like a freight train.
More papers and a photo…but of something else entirely.
Someone.
Lying unconscious on the floor next to her Doc McStuffins doll.
Face full of blood.
So much fucking blood.
With shaky hands I pick it up, feeling the strain behind my eyes as they widen on her tiny body. Swollen, bruised, and broken.
“No…”
I peel my gaze from picture to folder, where a paper on top has “paint them red” scribbled all over in red crayon.
Behind it—police reports from that day.
Behind those—psychiatric reports.
My throat burns as I skim through Dr. Morris’ first assessment, with phrases like “family history of drugs and mental illness on mother’s side” along with “minor with hallucinatory behavior.”
“Intent to cause extreme harm.”
Each one of my broken pieces checked off in black ink.
Tears and memories of the little boy I’ve suppressed for years overwhelm me, beating my chest until it cracks open.
His hand squeezing the little girl’s hand as he begged her for forgiveness.
The cries scorching his insides when they took him away.
But most of all…the promise he made to himself from that day on.
If it’s you who hurts them first,then it’s you who makes sure no one does ever again.
30
Hendrix
Not many things are worse than a rainy Monday hangover, but spending the entirety of it with Archer overloaded on Red Bulls sure does make the cut.
“Say it with me...” He waves his hand over our heads. “Yacht party by Crescent Point Beach.”
An isolated beach off the east bank of the Hudson?
