I watch through the window, waiting on something to happen. Someone will surely try to shut her up, and she has something Logan needs.
Murdock was a sick fuck, but he was also a smart one. He knew it was stupid to burn all the physical evidence as he was tasked to do. He also knew it would be wise to harbor it, keep it safe, in case the sheriff ever decided to turn on him the way he did my father.
The name of my father has become a cautionary tale to not get on Cannon’s bad side.
I’m going to turn this town into a cautionary tale of what happens when you destroy a family like mine.
But to instill fear, I have to show mercy as well. Mercy to those who were victims in their own right. Mercy to those who are tired of being weak and silenced.
They’ll come for her. No doubt Murdock has run his big mouth about his evidence hoarding at some point. His wife wouldn’t know of its existence. But some of the other deputies—if not all of them—would.
As if to prove me right, I see headlights in the distance, the car shutting off and the lights being killed down the street.
I sit on my perch in the tree behind the house, cloaked in the shadows of darkness.
I guess I’ll be showering twice tonight.
The two silhouettes move toward the house, and I hop down from my tree and stealthily move inside the backdoor that has been left unlocked.
“Your bath is finished running,” I hear Cheyenne saying to her daughter as I stop inside the kitchen, gauging the windows that are concealed by the blinds. Only the back had visibility. The men are coming in from the front, but I need to prepare for one to slip around back.
“Okay,” the child says weakly, and I ignore the pang in my heart, reassuring myself that I did the right thing.
As soon as the child heads up the stairs, I step inside the living room, finding a spot I can’t be seen from the back, and study the back of Cheyenne as she lifts a picture of her late husband.
A small smile crosses her lips. “Rot in hell, you stupid bastard. Let’s see if the devil lets you lay your hands on him, or if he shows you a taste of your own medicine.”
A dark grin emerges on my own lips.
“I’m sure the devil will enjoy playtime with Greg,” I drawl.
She stumbles, eyes wide and panicked as her head swivels around to see me.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who is about to save your life. Two men are coming. One will come from the front, one from the back,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. “They know Murdock hid some evidence.”
She pales, and I nod. “I’ve already saved you once tonight; this will be the second time. You’ll owe me, Cheyenne.”
Her lip trembles, but before she can speak, the door is kicked in from the front, and she screams, drawing the barrel of the gun toward her. The end has a silencer on it, because these guys came to kill—not fuck around.
I dart across the room before the first shot can be fired, and I grab the man’s wrist, twisting it back. I don’t know this guy. I guess the sheriff outsourced this job to keep his nose clean.
He cries out when I slam the heel of my palm up, connecting with his nose. Blood sprays, and I spin, disarming him in the process. Just as I grab my knife from my side, I hear a click from behind me.
“Just who the hell are you?” a man’s voice asks.
Everyone wants my name. There’s a Rumpelstiltskin joke in there somewhere.
Again, it’s someone I don’t recognize. I catch a vague image of him through the reflection of the picture glass on the wall.
The guy I was fighting with is staring at me with contempt in his eyes as he cradles his broken nose.
“Who cares? Kill that bitch,” the bleeding one growls.
“My name now doesn’t really matter. But once upon a time, people called me Victoria Evans.”
I may not know them, but judging by the audible breaths and the surprise in the bleeding one’s eyes, they know me.