Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
The injury therefore that you do to a man should be such that you need not fear his revenge.
The quote from The Prince has always been one of my favorites. I've lived my life by it for as long as I can remember. It's a lesson I learned through experience, through bloodlust and bloodshed. It's a lesson that has kept me alive and led to many other deaths.
If you're going to hurt someone, make it fatal.
Don't wound. Kill.
Don't let them walk away.
It's a code those in the old country live by—you don't just kill a man, you kill his whole family. Orphaned sons grow up to be vengeful men. Widowed husbands come looking for blood eventually.
I sit in my car, once more in the small town of Dexter, just a few miles to the west of Watertown. My vintage copy of Machiavelli's book lies open in my lap as I thumb through the warped, water damaged pages in the darkness. I couldn't believe it, when I looked at my phone this morning and the familiar address of the flower shop in Watertown greeted me.
Carmela went back home, it seems.
I'm curious why, and I have a few theories: maybe because it's the only place Karissa would know to look for her mother, or maybe it's because Carmela has nowhere else to go. But I think it's more complex, like maybe she knows what's coming, and when it happens, she wants it to be on her terms.
She has the upper hand here.
Or so she thinks.
Through the woods, I can see the house. The Jeep Wagoneer was abandoned at the shop in town, the doors all locked up. I'm not sure if she went back here or not, but she's in the area somewhere, and I don't know where else she'd go at night.
She has no money.
She had no friends.
She probably wouldn't expect me to bother looking here, since I'd already cleared her out of the place.
I linger for a while, just biding my time, watching the house as my hands stroke the cover of the book. It's all quiet, and dark, appearing abandoned, and I'm close to second-guessing myself when there's movement in the yard. Shadows move, the grass disturbed, seconds before a faint bark cuts through the silence.
Killer.
I watch attentively as the front door of the house just barely cracks open and the small dog darts straight inside. I continue to stare at it, even after all is still again, contemplating where to go from here.
Reaching into the center console, I pull out the small caliber handgun, carefully double-checking to make sure it's still loaded.
It's nearing midnight when I get out of my car and slowly make my way through the woods, watching my surroundings. No motion lights outside, I imagine, since the dog didn't trigger them. I'm thinking there isn't even any electricity.
That makes it tricky.
People take for granted the sounds that surround them. We tune them out naturally, but when they're gone, we miss them. They mask the unknown, and without that buffer, every creak and groan sounds grave and unnatural.
I approach the house, heading around the side of it. I remember the layout from the visit with Karissa. I head to where her old bedroom window would be, recalling her story not long ago about the windows. Her mother made a habit of nailing them shut, but Karissa rejected it and jimmied hers back open.
I try the widow, praying Carmela didn't catch it. It moves easily, barely making a creak. I haul myself up, careful to pull myself inside. My feet hit the wooden floor and I pause there for a moment, letting myself get used to the stuffy darkness.
It's deathly silent.
Once I've adjusted, I stand up, gripping the gun firmly as I stroll toward the door. It isn't latched. I remember. Karissa's bedroom door had always been broken.
I make my way toward Carmela's bedroom, my footsteps so light they don't make a sound. Her door is shut. I grasp the knob, testing it.
Unlocked.
I take a deep breath to steady myself, wondering if this is how Johnny did it, if this is how he felt when he broke into my house, when he killed my wife in the middle of the night. Did he hesitate outside the bedroom door? Did he even for a moment consider backing out?
Or was it easy for him, stepping inside, cocking that shotgun and destroying my life?
Shaking those thoughts away, I turn the knob and push the door open. It lets out an awful groan. The world around me seems to fall into slow motion while I still move at the speed of light. The noise echoes, everything around me crystal clear.
A dog growls nearby as the bed shifts.
Carmela sits straight up.
A second passes.
I stare at that familiar face, into those terror-filled eyes. A lifetime plays out around us, a world of memories and all those missed chances, the flood of what-could-have-been.
Could've been, but never will, because it's too late.
The chance is gone.
I raise my gun.
Another second.
I pull the trigger.
BANG
A single bullet rips right through Carmela's skull, dropping her instantly. I hesitated longer than she even felt it.
The growling turns to frantic barking. I turn the gun, pointing it at the mutt. His ears are laid back as he viciously bears his teeth, coming right toward me defensively. My gloved finger rests on the trigger.
I try.
I try.
I fucking try to do it, to pull the goddamn trigger, but I can't.
I can't do it.
"Fuck," I curse to myself, dropping the gun, abandoning it. The clank of metal against the floor makes the dog cower briefly. He whimpers before growling once more, terrified but protective, following me through the house as I head for the front door. I unlock it, opening it, holding it open for the dog to run out, but he backs away, staying in the foyer.
I consider leaving him there.
I almost do.
But I can't.
Again, I can't do it.
Karissa's voice echoes in the back of my head.
She loves him.
He's innocent.
On a whim I reach down and snatch ahold of the dog, lugging it outside with me. He barks and wiggles, frantic to escape my grasp. The second my grip loosens, he rears back, bearing his teeth as he clamps down on my forearm.