Wild Card (North Ridge #1)

I get it, too. I get that she doesn’t want this to come to light, that’s she afraid she’ll lose, that the town will see her in a different way, maybe as a victim, maybe as a harlot. Who knows. People talk. Rumors spread. I’ve seen people here turn on each other. It happens all the time. For all the good things that happen in small towns, the very people who wave at you as you drive by, who know you by name, are sometimes the very people willing to throw you under a bus. Small towns don’t always breed compassion and solidarity. They breed intimacy, but that’s not the same thing, not by a long shot.

There’s a chance that Rachel could be dragged through the mud, especially if her mother isn’t willing to come to her side. Clearly the woman is also a victim of abuse, but I know she’s probably living in extreme denial of what’s going on. If she’s afraid, she could take his side. And where would that leave Rachel?

No. I know that’s the right thing to do, but the right thing usually only pans out in movies. I’ve got something else I want to do, the justice this man deserves.

“Rachel,” I call out softly.

She doesn’t move. She continues to breathe deeply. I gave her a lot of whisky and sleepy tea in order to relax her and calm her down. I don’t think she’s going to stir all night.

Quietly, I slip on my coat and take the shotgun off the gun rack.

I step out into the night, gently closing the door behind me.

The air is crisp and cool, but inside I’m a barely contained fire, just dying to spill out.

I get in my truck and drive across town, all the way to the Waters’ house.

I don’t really have a plan. My thoughts have slowed to a dull crawl.

I park the truck around the corner.

I leap over the small rounded gate that leads to the stone path up to the house.

I open the door, poking my head inside.

It’s dark with only a hall light on. The blue clock of the microwave glows. The house is as still as a tomb and almost as quiet except for snoring coming from the living room.

There lies Rachel’s mother, passed out on the couch.

I clear my throat, testing the waters.

“Vernalee,” I say.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even stir.

I put my shotgun down against the wall and crouch down, picking her up.

I carry her all the way to the bedroom, placing her in bed. I get a glass of water and some Advil and put it beside her on the table. I know I should hate this woman for not believing her own daughter, for turning her away. But I can’t. I only feel deep sorrow and pity that she’s stuck in this situation, and until she faces it herself, she’ll never escape. No amount of drinking will ever do that.

I leave her in the bed, closing the door behind her, making sure it’s latched shut.

Then I switch off the hall light, pick up the shotgun, sit down on the couch in the living room, and wait in the darkness.

I think it’s been a couple of hours when I hear a car outside on the street. It runs for a few minutes and then turns off. The engine clicks.

The gate creaks open.

There are footsteps up the front steps.

The door opens with ease. No one locks doors in this town. What’s the point when the monsters already live with you?

I know it’s a matter of seconds before he spots me waiting in the dark with a shotgun. He might even pull his gun first.

I could just shoot him right now. But that would be too easy and I don’t want to get this over with just yet.

He turns into the kitchen and the room glows a cold white as he opens the refrigerator door.

I’m already on my feet. I’m behind him.

The barrel of the gun aimed at the back of his head.

My finger presses against the trigger.

It would be so easy to squeeze.

But I don’t.

I pull the gun back, and in the time that Errol Waters whirls around to face me, reaching for the gun in his holster as he does so, I’m swinging the shotgun clear across his face.

Blood sprays on the wall, his cheek collapsing as he’s thrown against the kitchen counter, the edge striking him in the ribs.

He cries out as he falls, but I’m already bringing the gun down over his head, striking him right across the crown.

“Help,” he cries out, his words garbled with blood and spit, but I’m putting the gun on the table and grabbing him by the collar, hauling him up to meet my face.

“You sick son of a bitch,” I sneer at him, spittle flying. The rage I have inside licks me—unrelenting, dangerous flames. “I should fucking kill you right here. Maybe I will.”

I slam him back against the fridge, and before he has a chance to duck or move, I strike him in the cheek. My fist cries out in pain but I’ve learned to ignore it. Errol is taller and bigger than me, but fighting Fox has taught me well over the years.

I start pummeling him, hitting his nose, his jaw, his cheek, his eye. The skin beneath my knuckles is slick with blood and soft, turning to pulp, but I can’t stop. The rage is all-encompassing and all I can think about is Rachel.

Revenge for Rachel.

Revenge for the woman I love.

“You sick fuck, you sick fuck,” I keep grunting over and over, like I’m in some kind of trance. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

And even though I’m not using my gun, I know if I keep going, I’m going to. I’m going to beat his nose back into his brain and shatter the grey matter with shards of bone. I’m going to end his life like this, lying in a puddle of blood on his kitchen floor, and I know he deserves worse, so much worse. I could go on like this for hours.

I just might.

Then I hear someone behind me, and even though I don’t hear a gun being cocked I know one is pointed at my head. That’s something you can feel deep in the seat of you.

“Stop,” a man’s voice says. “Put your hands up. Now.”

The man isn’t calm. His voice is weak, shaking, and I know it’s the voice of Constable James Zimmer. He’s not about to fire his gun on me, but if he’s as panicked as he sounds, he might.

I raise my hands in the air and Errol slumps to the floor, spitting out blood and teeth.

“Turn around,” Zimmer says.

I slowly turn around, my chin raised along with my hands.

The look of shock that comes over his face is almost humorous. “Shane Nelson?” he asks.

I don’t say a word.

And Errol, he’s not done. He’s not knocked out, though he should be after what I did to him. He shouldn’t even be able to breathe even though he’s slowly getting to his feet beside me.

“Errol, are you okay?” Zimmer asks him.

But Errol is not okay. He’s able to stand if he’s holding on to the kitchen counter, but he’s not okay.

“Shane, what the hell are you doing? What happened?” Zimmer asks me.

But I don’t know what to say. I’m supposed to keep this to myself.

I can’t anymore. I’ve gone too far. I pray Rachel can forgive me.

“Justice,” I tell him. “Why don’t you ask him what he’s been doing to his wife and daughter for years? I’m sure if they had the strength, they would have done the same.”

Zimmer is beyond puzzled, the shadows on his face deepening in the darkness. “What the hell are you talking about? Errol?”

Errol raises his head to look at me.

I meet his eyes and it’s like looking into the face of hell itself.