Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
She sniffed hard once, swallowing, and reaching up to scrub the tears off her cheeks. "Okay," she agreed, lifting her chin slightly, determined not to break apart. Given that she had been attacked, and had killed a man, that was impressive.
"Okay. First, how long ago did this happen?" I asked, waving a hand toward the body.
She shrugged at that. "It was still dark," she offered, closing her eyes for a second and shaking her head before opening her eyes again. "But not for long. Really early this morning."
That was good. If it happened hours before, that meant there was pretty much no chance the cops were going to show up suddenly. "Alright. Good. Now, this gun," I said, tapping my fingertip on it. "Where did you get it?"
"I, ah, when your people said they couldn't help me, I just... went down the street to the, ah..."
"Henchmen," I supplied, figuring that was the most likely place she could pick one up.
"Yeah," she agreed, nodding.
Another good thing. It wasn't registered to her. No one could trace it to her.
"Do you know his name?" I asked.
"No."
"Alright, now this one is important, and I need you to look at me," I said, waiting for her gaze to lift to mine. "Did he rape you?"
She didn't just flinch; she jumped backward hard enough to make the nightstand slam against the wall.
"It's alright," I said, trying for soothing, knowing it wasn't a tone my voice did well. "Honey, you have bruises across your throat and a black eye and his coc..."
"No," she cut me off fiercely, then winced, reaching up and touching her throat.
Anyone who had ever been choked in their life knew that it wasn't just an external bruise; it was a sore, jagged, swallowed-glass sensation inside too. Like a sore throat times a thousand.
"Aven, I need you to be..."
"He didn't rape me," she said, voice quieter, likely because it hurt. "He was... I know he was going to. That's why I had to get to the gun. I had to..." she broke off on a small sob there, closing her eyes tight.
"You're right," I said, taking a breath.
Her eyes fluttered open, brows drawn together. "I'm... right?"
"You're right. He would have raped you. And you're right; you needed to get the gun. And lastly, you were fucking right by picking it up and emptying it into his body."
I didn't live in some fantasy world where death was always bad, murder was always a crime. That was a fucking fairy tale. Murder often was not only warranted but needed in many situations. A woman attacked in her own bedroom? Fucking needed.
Fuck, if the government would tell women that shooting a rapist or would-be rapist was a-okay in the eyes of the law, I bet there'd be a lot less fucking rapists out there re-offending.
"I... killed him," she said, shaking her head, obviously not living in the same ugly world I lived in.
"Yep," I agreed.
"I'm going to go to jail," she said, looking past my shoulder as another rogue tear slid down her cheek.
"No. That's where you're wrong. You're not going to jail."
"I killed someone," she hissed. "The cops are going to take me in and fingerprint me and question me and put me in a cell and..."
"Alright. Listen, none of that is going to happen. Because as of five minutes ago, I took on your case."
See, I didn't do stalkers. Never had, never planned to in the future. But murder? Murder, I handled.
"But..."
"No buts," I said, shrugging.
"I can't pa..."
Pay.
Obviously.
I nodded but cut her off. "I'm not a good man, babe. Don't let this situation fool you. I'm as dirty as they come. But once in a blue fucking moon, I do things just because it's right. This is one of those times. So you don't have to pay me. But you do have to agree to let me handle this."
"Handle it... how?" she asked.
"Fix it," I shrugged.
"Fix it how?" she pressed.
"In this scenario and from this point on, the less you know, the better. Now I need you to stay right where you are. Don't move," I said, reaching into my pocket for my cell, and calling my office. "Jules, put on Finn," I barked.
"Finn?" she asked, her tone guarded, having worked with me long enough to know what that meant. And, knowing where I was because she sent me, she knew it was bad. "Quin..."
"Not her," I cut her off. "Put Finn on," I demanded.
"What's up, Quin?" Finn's voice picked up, sounding distracted.
"Full fucking cleanup," I said and listened to him pause.
"When? Where?"
"Now. In Navesink Bank. Jules will give you the address. I'm here right now."
Another pause. "Alright," he agreed, and I could hear him silently ticking off his checklist. "I'll be there in twenty."
"Who knew about this stalker? I know you told the cops. Boyfriend?"