All those men, and especially those women, had lost their lives, or lived with awful memories, never feeling safe again.
This man was guilty of inhuman things.
So could you really be guilty of exacting justice on such a person? In the same way that you would be guilty of taking an innocent life?
I think there were gray areas of life.
This was one of them.
And I wasn’t naive.
Gunner had killed people. Possibly many people. Was it really all that different because that was war, and this was on home turf? He took out bad people.
Cortez was a bad person.
“What’s that look, duchess?” he asked, head ducked to the side, eyes curious.
“I’m just… processing,” I admitted.
“Do it out loud,” he suggested, trying to draw me out, as he was prone to do.
“I’m just trying to figure out how I feel about this. You killed someone.”
“Who almost killed you,” he agreed. “Who would have done worse, who would have made you beg for death.”
My stomach churned at that, the stories coming back to me. “I know,” I agreed.
“He’s suspected of eight homicides, but people on the street put that well into double-digits. The law has failed to do justice.”
“But does it give you the right to be the judge, jury, and executioner?” I voiced out loud.
“Picture this for a second,” he offered, backing up to lean against the kitchen counter, pulling me with him. “You are putting groceries away in the back of your car. It’s late. No one is around. Cortez walks up. What do you do?”
“If no one is around to hear me scream?” I clarified. He nodded. “And he’s too close for me to run?” I asked. Again, a nod. “I guess I see if I have something to defend myself with.”
“You have a tire iron. What do you do? Do you gently tap him with it because you don’t want to hurt him. Or do you take that motherfucker, and slam it into his head with everything you have, knowing damn well that you could kill him?”
“I get your point.”
“Everyone is capable of killing, Sloane. In the right situations. Taking a man out of the world who has done the things he has done to many others, and in this case, especially to you, it is the right situation.”
“But what if someone saw you or…”
“No one saw me.”
“Or the bullet could be traced?”
“It couldn’t, first. And I took it out, second. No one is going to know it was me. Honestly, duchess, not a single fucking cop is putting in work to figure out who it was. A scumbag they have been chasing for years is off the streets. A new leader will rise up. They have better things to do than chase me down. Even if they had something to go on. Which they don’t.”
“But why?” I insisted, needing him to spell it out, not willing to let myself hope for things that could end up hurting me.
“Because you called me crying.”
“But…”
“Didn’t like hearing that,” he cut me off. “And I get you, Sloane. I know that it took a lot for you to open up.”
“A lot of wine.”
He smirked at that, but shook his head. “You were drunk, sure. But you could have called someone back home. You could have reached out to someone you used to work with. That is what most people do. But you reached out to me. You trusted me with that.”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” I told him. “I shouldn’t have put my problems on you like that. That isn’t fair.”
“Your feelings aren’t an inconvenience, Sloane. I get that your mother taught you exactly the opposite. But you aren’t a little girl anymore. You need to realize that you have a right to feel the way you feel, and to express that. Without feeling embarrassed or guilty. Especially with me.”
“You aren’t responsible for dealing with my outbursts.”
“First, that wasn’t an outburst. Second, it’s not about being responsible; it is about being interested and concerned.”
“You don’t have to be concerned about me. I can take care of myself.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, looking up at the ceiling like he could find strength there. “Can you take a hint already?”
“What hint?”
“That I give a shit, okay? That I want to hear what is going on in here,” he said, reaching up to tap me on the temple. “That if you need to vent, you can do it to me.”
“I… appreciate that,” I said, not sure if I was reading this correctly or not. If maybe he was just offering me friendship that it was so blatantly clear that I needed.
“I didn’t offer to drive you to the fucking airport, Sloane,” he told me, seeing right through me.
“What did you offer me then?” I asked bluntly.
“I’m offering whatever you want from me,” he told me. “You want a friend, I’m your friend. You want more, I’ll give you more. You want to tell me to get the fuck out of your life, I won’t like it, but I’ll go.”