But who's leaving with all the power? Me.
I place the gun on the beech table beside her two phones and her keys, and let myself out to the strange music of her sobs.
Leontine Reeves didn't hunt me down to punish me.
Dirty little bitch wants me to punish her.
TWENTY SIX YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 6
Strange man on the floor with a bag on his head.
Man is very still. Mama sits on the green couch, watching her shows and drinking smelly tea. I pad to her in my bear slippers.
"Mama?"
Her face is dancing colours, lights echoed from the TV. She doesn't look at me. "Go to sleep."
"Can't."
"You and me both, hon."
"What were the noises?"
"Just the movie." She tuts, waves me away like a flappy bird. "Aeron. It's past nine."
The smell of her tea makes my belly hurt. "Where's Daddy?"
She freezes. "Go to bed."
"Can he play me a song? Just to help me sleep." He does good songs on the piano.
Her voice changes. "There was a problem with Daddy."
I frown. "Like what?"
"Nothing. Now get your ass to bed before I lose my temper."
"Okay," I mumble. Maybe I'll play Nintendo, turn the sounds down.
Back to the door and the stairs, past the man on the floor.
Man with Daddy's hairy feet, but not his clothes.
Man with his face covered. So still.
My belly empties, sour taste in my mouth like that time I drank mouthwash. All over the carpet and covering my bear slippers.
"Hey!" I choke out. "I'm s-s-I'm sick..."
Nothing.
Must be a real good show she's watching.
Mama...?
#7
Corruption (noun): acceptance of the fact that 'nice boys' still conduct school shootings, and the best place to find a 'nice girl' is on the end of a bastard's dick
Oh, hello there. I'm Aeron Lore. You might recognise me from scenes such as sexually assaulting Leo, or trespassing in Leo's apartment and assaulting her again. It's important that you remember this as you join me for the next part of the journey. Important that you understand how things are here in the land of American Dreams.
I made the mistake of underestimating Leo, but now I know what she's capable of and what she needs from me. Nobody asks to be corrupted, but there comes a time in a man's life when he looks around and realizes how he got this far; the answer is never being nice. It's exactly the same for women, but half of them haven't noticed yet.
This is Leo's time. This is the part where I gamble, and it could go one of three ways.
The first way—and the most obvious—is that she runs. I open my eyes and just like that, she flickers from the world like a candle blown out, taking my secrets with her.
The second is that she makes good on her go fuck yourself threat and exposes everything. Could the police hurt me? Probably not, given time elapsed and my access to good counsel. But it would look bad. Create an aura of distasteful notoriety. Rachel would probably make a couple hundred thou on a cringeworthy tell-all book, and Leo...she's not that kind of victim. But my victim...ah, that, she is.
The third way is that Leo signs the contract and takes my offer. Comes to me, despite my transgressions. Kneels at the feet of the devil, arms outstretched and forehead to the floor. I've made it clear what I'm about. What she'd be signing up for.
I don't know that she will sign. I've hurt her. Threatened her. Humiliated her. She could wield power over me if she wanted; in fact the only thing she can't do is refuse me, should I decide to assert myself upon her again. Though there's something about the image of her willingly spreading her thighs for me that heats my blood a few degrees above longing. Surrender, they call it. White flag, white skin as my canvas, and a mouthful of white truths. Shall I hedge my bets here, after she struggled not to come on my fingers? Yes, I think I shall.
Watch her closely for me, grasshoppers. Leo thinks she's supposed to be a nice girl. Her perception is warped—there's more than a streak of me in the little lion.
There are other things inside her, too. And only one way to find them: cut a hole and let them out.
***
The morning after I visit Leo's apartment, I get into work just before eight a.m. and summon Tuija. She bursts into the office a few minutes later, my black coffee in one hand and her iPad in the other. Her hair is tied up today, some complicated kind of bun, and she has applied too much makeup to hide her hangover. She looks like a ballerina in drag.
"Are the news editors still using conference suite three for their meetings?" I ask, not looking up from the computer.
"Good morning to you, too." She places my coffee on a glass coaster. "And yes, they are. Why?"
"Clear it out." I flick off my email screen and sit back to appraise her. "It'll hold, what, sixteen desks? I want Silent Witn3ss in there."
She blinks matted black eyelashes against circles of too-pale makeup. "What? I thought—"
"No contract yet, I know. But there will be."