Epoch (Transcend Duet #2)(88)

“Morgan Daisy Gallagher.”

He narrowed his eyes, taking backwards steps until his legs hit the sofa.

“Did you kill her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

My lips twisted to the side. “I’m on a tight schedule today. Just indulge me. It will be less painful if you do.”

“Think you’re going to beat me up again?”

“God no.” I shook my head, taking a step closer. “You’re going to hang yourself.”

He released a nervous laugh. “Fuck you.”

“The only question is … why? Hmm … do you suppose it’s the scar on your face that makes you look creepy as fuck? Is it possible that one day you woke up and couldn’t stand to look at yourself in the mirror any longer? Maybe out of sheer anger and self-destructive insanity you cut open that scar. A cleansing of your past, your sins. And then you hung yourself.”

I stepped closer.

He fell back into the sofa.

“What do you want? Is this about my accident prone neighbor?”

I shook my head. “I want to know about Morgan Daisy Gallagher. I want to know about that scar on your face.”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Just how much of a sick fuck are you?” I moved toward his kitchen. “Are we talking body parts in your freezer?”

He jumped up from the sofa and came at me. I slammed him into the wall. Not hard enough to leave a mark, just hard enough to restrain him and maneuver him where I wanted him, where my hold on him controlled all oxygen to his brain.

“The scar?” I increased the pressure, using my arms where they wouldn’t leave a mark. “One … two … three …”

He flailed. I let up just enough to give him a quick breath.

“The scar? One … two … three …” I let up.

We did this several times until he talked.

“She cut me …” He coughed. “So I cut her.”

“Where?”

He coughed. I applied pressure again. “One … two … three …”

More coughing when I let up. His hand went from clutching my immovable arm to drawing an invisible line on his chest. “I cut her with the same piece of metal she used to cut me—”

“WHERE?” My patience waned.

“H-here.” His finger pressed to his ribs and straight up.

The birthmark. He fucking drew the exact path of the birthmark. My jaw clenched. “How many?”

More coughing. More pressure until he clawed at my arm again.

“How many girls? How many? Last chance before I cut. Your. Fucking. Face. Open.”

“I-I … don’t know.”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t know” meant there were many. Too many to count. I didn’t open my eyes again. My arms applied more pressure. I counted.

He flailed.

I needed him unconscious, not dead.

When his body relaxed at ten seconds. I let go, eased him to the floor and retrieved the paracord from inside my jacket. I made slip knots at both ends of the cord—one for his head, one for the doorknob—and hoisted him up to hang him. I set a stool nearby. And I left.

No knife.

No gun.

No sign of injuries or a struggle.

Then I drove west. Leaving my whole fucking world in Madison. But …

I kiss her birthmark again. And again. And again. “You were safe.”

“Griff …” My name rips from her chest.

“I believed you … ninety-nine percent. But before I took a man’s life, I had to know with complete certainty.”

I hold her while she grieves. I can’t entirely imagine what it must be like to hear details of your own death. So … I just hold her.

After long minutes, her labored breaths and jerky sobs fade to a silent stillness. She cups my face, forcing me to look up at her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I let her go.”

I nod and turn my head to kiss the inside of her wrist.

“I let him go.”

“I know,” I say with my lips relishing the feel of her soft skin.

If she didn’t let Daisy and Nate go, she wouldn’t be here.

“But my heart … it never let you go.”

My gaze finds hers, holding it while I stand. “I know.”

She smiles. “All.”

I squint.

“You said we’re all or nothing.”

I grin. “All.” Then I grab her a clean shirt and slip it over her head.

“It’s a little big.” She pinches the front of it and brings it to her nose. “But it smells like Griffin.”

I chuckle. “It’s a clean shirt.”

She shrugs.

I take her hand. “Come on, Samantha. Let’s grab some food.”

She pulls in the opposite direction. I stop.

Her expression falls serious again. “You took a life.”

I took a life.

And while I need her to share some of the burden, I will never tell her that every day for the rest of my life I will think about how it felt to be judge, jury, and executioner. I will never tell her that no matter how much he deserved to die, it’s impossible to kill someone without letting go of a piece of your own soul.