Page 25 of Vicious Hearts

"You don'treallyhave a rubber duckie, do you?" she asks, bursting into fresh giggles.

"Nah, I was kidding. But if I did, that's what I'd call it." I kiss the back of her hand and turn away, heading for the bathroom. "How hot do you like it?"

She smiles. "Bordering on scalding, if you please."

I arch an eyebrow. "Dangerous. I like it."

* * *

It's gonna happen tonight. I know it.

I have to at least fuckingtryto keep myself in check for now. Roxy needs to unwind. It's not just the fear and confusion of her predicament—it'sme. I'm getting to her. So as much as I want to join her in the bath, I'm gonna leave her be.

I take a giant slug of the wine and put the glass down on the table. In the drawer below the tabletop is the case file. Two cardboard covers, and between them, as much evil as you could hope never to see. Statements, transcripts, photos, psych and pathology reports, the works. Hillard turned it all over to me when I got involved.

I always keep things. You never know when it'll come in useful.

I open the cover and see Simon Farraday. A man with a powerful jaw, a receding hairline, and strangely, kind eyes. The same mugshot was printed in every newspaper up and down the country.

Roxy believes this man is innocent, with the zealotry and fervor of a true idealist. I admire her for that. I never believed in much except myself and my own interests.

Hillard's signature is at the bottom of Farraday's confession. He signed off every page because he ran every interview. He didn't want his men to suffer through it if they didn't have to.

I had my share of run-ins with the cops over the years, but most of them were either on the Bratva payroll or I had something on them that ensured they'd stay out of my business. Hillard is a different kind, though. He tolerated the mob influence that corrodes his city and poisons his precinct, but he wouldn’t partake. Then I got involved in his most important case and brought the Bratva into his business. A shame for an honest cop who’d stayed clean for years.

The Bratva community keeps me on the fringes because I was involved in a coup against a Pakhan. I tried to take a violent shortcut to seize power that wasn't mine. And although I backtracked when I discovered I'd been lied to, my actions have marked me.

Despite my usefulness, I doubt I’ll find a way back to the world I called home for so long. But I wonder—if I'd known I'd be pushed out regardless, would I still have helped Leo and Ali? Or would I have done whatever the fuck served me best? I could have killed them and taken over from Paval Gurin, just like the old bastard promised me.

No. I have my limits, and killing innocent people is beyond the pale. That's why it mattered to me to see The Dollmaker put away.

An idea occurs to me.

What would it be worth to thekommissiyaif it turned out that Hillard’s most significant casewasa complete fuck-up? He’d be fired, and they could use their leverage to get someone better in his post—someone whowantedto play nicely with the Bratva. I’d get some appreciation forthat.

I still think the man who attacked Roxy is a copycat. But you never know.

I flick through the file, my eyes moving over things. Words. Names. Faces, some of the living and some of the dead.

The photos are the worst. The bodies are just lifeless mannequins, there to serve a need. No vitality, no presence, just shells. That's why they call him The Dollmaker.

Of the six children killed, only the third body was identified. He came from a very respectable family, but the others were street kids. The media went crazy over it, but despite an intensive police effort and a public campaign, none of them were named.

When Farraday was arrested, he said he'd picked them up off the streets—just plucked them, like he was picking grapes. It seems he was good at spotting the right kind of victim, and it burns me to think that they died afraid and alone, with no one looking for them.

I remember the father of the third victim. The wife told Hillard her husband was at a meeting at the time of her son's abduction, and the alibi was sound. But I hated that fucker as soon as I set eyes on him.

When I was doing my background check on the case, I went to see the parents. The mother kept saying I had to talk to her husband, but he was dismissive when I finally got hold of him. He kept saying his son would still be alive if he had not been playing in the street when he was meant to be in his room. I seethed to hear him callously blame his dead son for his own murder, as though the poor kid deserved it somehow.

Bad shit happens to bad people too. Victims are not saints, and neither are the bereaved. They're just people with their traits and peculiar ways of responding to grief.

Fate rarely gives you your dues. The truth is that we're all riding the sharp edge of dumb luck every day. No one deserves to die, and no one deserves to live—the universe is indifferent. Why do we strive to believe otherwise?

A sound from the bathroom reaches into my thoughts, and I close the file. I tilt my head and listen.

Roxy is sobbing. A weary, heartsore whimper, punctuated by sniffing as she tries to hold herself together.

I go to the bathroom door and knock.

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