Page 91 of Crybaby

The moment I butt out the smoke with my boot, she appears breathless with a hole torn in her jeans. Boris doesn’t like her, it seems.

I push off the hood, and we get into the truck. It starts with a roar, and we take off into the night.

The radio fills the silence until Darcie, with her face turned toward her window, whispers, “Nonna said she’ll find good homes for the kittens.”

Those motherfucking kittens.

I’ve left Darcie sleeping because honestly, I need to do this alone.

I left her a note and a gun on the bedside table, hinting my return, not that I think she’d care either way. The dynamics have shifted between us, and I think that’s because she’s finally seen the real me.

Darcie isn’t a killer—her hand was forced by gruesome things done to her, and instead of being a fucking crybaby about it, she took matters into her own hands. That’s what doers do—they do. But she wasn’t born this way.

It’s the classic case of nature versus nurture.

Me, however. The fact that I’m skulking through the Becketts’ backyard like a thief in the night has me questioning just whoIam.

I know the blueprint of this place because I fucked Carson’s mom. She was careless and underestimated me and my need to destroy everything I touch. This anger eating away inside me fuels every step I take, and all I can think about is making everyone pay.

Darcie is safe, and that’s all I care about.

She didn’t question how I knew the mansion on the lake would be vacant when I broke in. She also didn’t flinch when I punched in the alarm code because she knew, she knew what I did, or rather,whomI did to get intel on the place.

I stole Ms. Klein’s antique ring from her finger when she was sleeping. After I fucked her, of course. When Darcie pulled back the Egyptian cotton sheets and rested her head against the pristine white pillows, I couldn’t help but feel a sliver of disgust when I remembered fucking Ms. Klein against the headboard.

Darcie was lying in my filth—in more ways than one.

The Kleins are holidaying in Spain, just how they always do at this time of year. I know this because that’s what every smart predator does—they watch and learn the movements of their prey. And that’s how I know how to break into the Beckett fort without detection.

The DA’s home is the biggest on the block—I wonder if the size is making up for something he’s lacking in his pants.

The white house exudes wealth and importance to those who drive by. But it’s all for show because his wife wouldn’t be seeking out the consorts of a high school student if she were a pillar of happiness.

But that’s the thing about these rich folk; the more they have, the more they want and before long, everything loses its shine, and they are constantly chasing a new high, something to bring excitement into their structured lives.

Money doesn’t buy happiness. It does, however, help you survive, which is what I plan on doing as I slip on my hood and punch the code into the panel on the garage door.

Everything runs on codes in the Beckett household, and I know them all, thanks to finding them written down in Theresa Beckett’s notebook. I committed them to memory as I knew they’d come in handy one day.

The beep and green light on the panel let me know it’s showtime as the garage door rolls open. I enter casually and curl my lip when I see the DA’s numerous sports cars parked in the enormous garage. I’ve never seen Walter drive any of these, so it’s all for show—just another thing to showcase his wealth and importance to his country club friends.

I fucking hate this guy.

He goes around town, thinking he’s better than anyone else, but behind that dazzling smile, I know lies a cunning bastard. Everyone is fooled by his bullshit, but not me, which is why I’m here. I know he is guarding secrets; skeletons in the closet, so to speak.

Every founding family like this does.

I plan on discovering those secrets and exposing this family for the lying, cheating assholes that they are. Walter has no doubt cleaned up his son’s indiscretions in the past because I have a feeling what Carson did to Darcie wasn’t the first time.

It was about power because he’d felt powerless his whole life, oppressed under the shadow of his “perfect” father. He has been forced to live the charade as the impeccable son of the DA who can do no wrong, but Carson and his father are far from perfect, and it’s time I expose them.

Unable to help myself, I reach into my pocket for the stolen truck keys and key each car as I walk by them, whistling under my breath. If I wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous, I would smash each window before setting the cars on fire, but maybe another day.

I open the door, which leads into the long hallway.

Peering from left to right, I see the coast is clear, so I mute my footsteps as I make my way to Walter’s office. I can’t help but admire the architecture of the place. It’s antiquated, mixed with modern, and if this was anyone else’s house, I would think it’s pretty cool.

The grand marble staircase is carpeted in red. The paintings on the high walls are worth a small fortune. Walter may be the world’s biggest fuckstick, but he has good taste in art.

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