Page 119 of Double Down
They laughed, rolled their eyes, brushed it off like I was being dramatic or trying to break some tension. But my hand hasn’t moved from the knife tucked into my pocket.
My fingers brush over the warm metal, and it soothes me. The thought still sits sharp and clean in the back of my skull. I could be a gentleman about it. Make her death the complete opposite of her life—quick, painless and clean. That would mean I couldn’t gut her, but that’s okay. Her blood would still spill.
It’d be one problem solved. And solved in a way that wouldn’t lead back to us. She’s a senator’s wife. She’s having an affair. All that other shit is just icing on the cake.
Death…pain…they don’t disturb me, not in the same way they do other people.
Once, in late winter, I found a buck hit by some drunk on Highway 17, steam lifting off his hide in the blue cold. His rackwas barely velvet-torn, his back leg broken clean through, his breath fogging in panicked bursts. I put a hand between his eyes and talked until his shuddering eased.
Mercy isn’t a feeling. It’s a decision you make the choice to act upon. You don’t take it back. I made a quick cut. It was a clean end, and the world went quiet again when the buck finally slid from this world to the next.
Another time, there was a stray dog behind the bait shop—her skin a map of old fights, her eyes glassy with pain. She wouldn’t let anyone close but me. I sat on the cold concrete and let her put her head in my lap while the night breathed around us. There were no dramatics. No audience. Just the slow unwinding of a life that had fought too long. She was chewed up by fleas and ticks. There was already blood coming out of her ears and eyes. I couldn’t let her stay that way. I couldn’t let her continue to hurt. So, I did what I needed to, and then I stayed until her last exhale and dug her grave myself. I let her go with the knowledge that there was love in this world, even if she’d only known it in the last moments.
That’s what I mean when I say “gentlemanly.” Not bloodlust. Triage. Just…turning the noise down to zero.
Mrs. Langford is nothing but noise.
The oiled scent of the blade steadies me as the weight sits honest in my palm, pulling me back to quiet.
I know murder shouldn’t be my go-to, but really…at this point…what’s one more body?
Mrs. Langford is a walking fire alarm, shrieking until someone pays attention. And sooner or later, she’s going to make goodon her threats to call her husband, her boyfriend, or the fucking press.
I flick the knife open with a click. The blade flashes under the suite’s light. My fingers spin it once, then I snap it shut.
Open. Shut. Open. Shut. The rhythm is a tether, the only thing keeping me from planting the point straight into the polished wood of the coffee table.
A housekeeping cart rattles past the suite—one wheel rolling with a nagging squeak that drags. Someone’s phone pings an alert. I count it all:squeak, ping, knife click—inhale.Squeak, ping, click—exhale. I stack my breath on the sounds and let the routine sand down the edges.
Phoenix catches my eye, and I shake my head. I’m not close to going into a dark place. It’s just run of the mill annoyance and stress. But that doesn’t stop her from coming to me. When she slips into my arms, I can’t help but press a kiss to her neck.
Atticus leans forward, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes before he taps a finger against his tablet. His voice is low, flat, the way it gets when he’s half-gone from too many sleepless nights.
“I found footage,” he says. “Footage that shouldn’t exist.”
“Define shouldn’t,” Conrad bites out. His temper’s already on a short leash.
Atticus tilts the tablet toward us. I lean just enough to see the screen. My stomach goes cold.
It’s our suite. A grainy angle, black-and-white, from above.
The living room.
Our couch. This couch.
Us, from maybe two nights ago.
I straighten so fast the knife almost slips.
Atticus swipes, showing more. Conrad’s office. Atticus’s workspace. The dining room where we fucked Phonix as a group the first time. Where the body was left.
Places that should be private. Places where secrets bleed.
“Jesus,” Maverick mutters, sunglasses dangling from his fingers. “We’re being watched like contestants on some bad reality show.”
I flip the knife between my knuckles, then swipe a hand through my hair, pushing the shoulder-length strands off my face and flipping them behind my shoulder. “Good news is, I look fantastic on camera.”
Atticus ignores me, keeps flipping through the cursed reel. “The cameras were hardwired. I did some searching and managed to locate the ones that corresponded to these images. There were pinhead lenses tucked into vents and the smoke detectors. Feeds spliced into piggyback servers hidden behind DVR racks. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. I burned the lines, wiped what I could. But the fact remains—they’ve been watching us, obviously. For a while. I have no way to know what they have copies of.”
