It’s like a hit to the gut. I clutch my belly, stumble backward, feel my face burn, feel shame spread its icy darkness through me.
“Shit. Cilla, that’s not—”
I look down, grip the railing to keep upright. “I need some water.” And to disappear from here. From his sight.
It takes him a moment, but he slides the key into the lock, then stops because the door isn’t locked. “Fucking Benji.”
24
Kill
Fuck. I don’t need this right now. I don’t need to deal with Ben right fucking now. I wish I could take her straight back to Rockcliffe House and lock her away until this passes. Until she’s thinking straight again. But I need to pick something up. Hugo will have left it for me and I need it out of the office. I can’t take a chance it’ll be found.
Cilla’s on the verge of a breakdown. I feel it. She knows I know, but she won’t face the fact. I’m going to need to make her face it.
Callahan didn’t suffer enough before he died. Not nearly. What I saw at his house was sick. Sicker than I had thought. Sicker than I imagined possible.
She hadn’t lied when she’d told me he didn’t rape her, but I already knew that. He raped her brother. Knew that too. What I didn’t know was what that pervert made them do. The sick bastard recorded everything. Every single sick moment.
Thing is, he’d been abusing kids for years. He had a pattern, like Hugo had learned, and when he was through with the kids, when the boy was old enough to leave the house, he’d promise to release the girl in exchange for silence. But for kids who are abused like that for that long, you don’t need to make deals for them to keep your secret. Shame will do that for you. Shame and self-hatred. Because they think they’re accomplices.
I look at Cilla and she can’t look at me. I try to touch her, but she jumps back. I don’t push. “Let’s go in. It’s cold out here.”
She nods, keeps her head down, walks in.
I wonder how long Ben’s had a key to the club. How long he’s been waiting to get in here when Hugo or I aren’t here. I guess Hugo went home with a girl tonight and maybe Ben found his opportunity. What I want to know is when the fuck did he even get a key to get in here? I’m done with this asshole.
I walk into the dark main floor of the building, switch on a light. Look around. But there’s no one here.
“Whose car is that?” Cilla asks, sensing my mood. “Who’s here?”
At the elevator, I punch in the code and the doors slide open.
“My cousin.” I’m getting more and more pissed off by the minute. If he’s not down here, that means he’s up in my office. That means he’s watched me punch in the code, memorized it. Of all the nights he cannot be in my office, this is it.
Although maybe he’s been there before tonight.
But I stop short. I realize I don’t want her up there, not if he’s there. Because maybe I underestimated him all along. Maybe this isn’t about twenty grand at all.
I walk around the nearest bar, get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, open it. “Stay here while I handle this.”
She nods, takes a seat on the stool where I set the bottle of water. She doesn’t drink. Instead, she hugs her coat to herself like she’s cold, and her eyes are far away.
I don’t want to leave her alone right now, but I need to take care of this.
“I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
She seems to shrink into herself.
I give Cilla one more glance as the doors close. It’s a short ride up and as soon as the doors slide open and I hear what I hear, all the things I’m feeling take on a different form. Rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.
Cilla. Cilla that night I recorded her.
I almost don’t see Ben for the red.
My fingernails dig into my palms at the sight of my cousin sitting behind my desk, the dim light of the lamp illuminating him. He moves into that light, eyes not on the monitor but on me, the look in them vengeful, ugly. Full of hate.
This is Ben. This is the real Ben. And I’ve been closing my eyes to it all along.
I switch on the lights.
Ben stands. He looks shocked to see me.
His face is covered in bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut, his lip cut. Blood is crusted on his ripped shirt. But when I see what he’s holding in his hand, I know this wasn’t ever about money. There was no twenty grand debt.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ben?” I take a step toward him but stop when he raises a shaky hand, in it the pistol I keep in my desk. I really need to lock that drawer.