I’m a shameless hedonist. Maybe partly due to the nurture aspect; my mother is a hedonist who raised me with nice things. Maybe partly due to the nature aspect; I have a thick shroud blanketing my feelings. Fine textures and comfortable, striking clothes feel good. I like feeling good. If I want something, I get it. I don’t understand why anyone would deny him-or-herself something that gives them pleasure.
I’m not controlled by my id—the brain’s pleasure principle—but I rarely tell it no, either. So my clients need to be able to afford my expensive taste, and to keep a secret.
The secret part is extremely important.
During the vetting stage, I make sure to dig up some juicy tidbit on each one. That’s another requirement. Each client needs at least one dirty secret I can hold against them should they suddenly have a bout of conscience and want to make our arrangement public.
As for Lenora, she may very well be a wronged wife, but she’s no innocent doormat. She’s been siphoning off her husband’s personal account. Little increments that she sends to a woman in Denver.
This woman adopted a baby boy twelve years ago in a private adoption.
Neither Lenora’s husband, nor her socialite friends, know of this child’s existence.
Then I factor in the target—or intended victim—the difficultly of access to them, and the measure of revenge the client wants to exact. This equation gives me a rough baseline, which is typically between fifteen and thirty thousand.
I make a decent living. I don’t have to work at my day job, but it’s wise to have a way to fudge my tax statements if the IRS comes knocking.
Truthfully, I probably should’ve turned Lenora away. During our first meeting at a hole-in-the-wall Starbucks, she presented as weak, broken. Desperate. The anger I usually see in clients wasn’t present in her. Instead, she begged me to help her. Her vulnerability didn’t move me; it was something else that motivated me to take on her plight.
Protectiveness?
Validation, maybe?
Honestly, I doubt I pitied her story or position any more than any other client, and yet there was still something about Lenora that burrowed underneath my skin.
I tuck the notebook away and check the time. Lucy has a few items at her day job that require attention, then I can make the proper arrangements for this weekend. I’ll need to gain access to Ericson’s office, and that’s going to take money—more money than I’m charging Lenora.
On my way to my office, I send Rochelle a text. She’s a bigwig client whose jobs help fund the less fortunate who want my services. Rochelle is always in need of revenge. She’s a bloodthirsty bitch.
She might be the only person I could love.
One thing I’m confident about is my ability to read others. You don’t have to have a vast array of emotions to recognize the nuances.
It was like that moment on the playground with Kyle. I knew his place in the world, and I knew mine. It was black and white. The punishment fit the crime.
Ericson Daverns is murdering his wife, slowly and deliberately, with his cruel, callous actions and disregard. A justice system can’t punish him. A world dominated by his kind won’t judge him. I know his place in the world, and I know mine.
Vengeance is my ethos.
My phone chimes and I swipe the screen to take the call. “Rochelle.”
“Got your text, honey,” she says. “How much time do you have this morning?”
She doesn’t waste a second on useless banter. Again, I could love this woman.
“An hour. What do you have?”
“A competitor who thinks she can copy my brand and steal business.”
Rochelle is a power-seeker, and she enjoys punishment. A lot. Of course, I’m not entirely sure if she’s a narcissist or just insanely neurotic. Possibly a toxic mix of both, which makes the revenge game addictive for her. She’s due for another fix.
As I turn down an alley to cut through, I sense a pull at the energy in the air, and that same stench of desperation that clings to Lenora touches my senses.
“On my way.” As I end the call, I feel an alarming tug on my shoulder and whirl around.
A scrawny man with a hoodie partially shielding his face yanks at my handbag. I clamp one hand to the strap and raise my phone to snap a picture. “You don’t want to do this,” I tell him as he tries once more to snatch my bag.
He’s desperate. The worst kind of person. His moral compass takes a backseat to whatever drug he’s craving. “Facial recognition has come a long way.” I snap a pic. “Your face is out there somewhere. I can find you…” I lean forward as the crowd rushes past outside the alley. “And I will sneak inside whatever hovel you’re holed up in and systematically remove body parts, leaving your most precious for last. Then I’ll peel the skin off your limp dick and douse the whole butchered mess with brake fluid.”
He shoves away from me and pushes the hoodie back, revealing sore-riddled cheeks and bruised half-moons beneath his glassy eyes. “Christ, lady. You’re fucking crazy.”
Hitching my bag strap high on my shoulder, I lift my chin. “Keep that in mind for your next victim. They just might call me.”
As I watch him run off, I feel…nothing. Not even the slightest swell of adrenaline. I look at my phone and stare at the image of him, then delete it without another thought.
I walk against the crush of foot traffic, cutting a line through the center of the crowd, wondering when my own moral compass became so desensitized. Having no empathy doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong. I’ve branded my career on the very nature of justice.
But if I had been alone with that guy—no witnesses—would I have made good on my threat? Just the thought of it sparks a tiny ripple of excitement.
Lately, my revenge job, that typically breaks through the hardened Teflon layer, has become dull. I’m not achieving the same thrill I did once before.
That feels dangerous.
Yet, I know very well I’d never take it that far. Believe me, once I knew what I was, I did the research. I studied up on Bundy and Rader (BTK) and other psychopathic killers. Whatever misfired in their brains, whatever damaged gray matter those predators sustained that led them down a dark path….we’re not the same.
The world is full of my kind. Check your top CEOs and entrepreneurs. Chances are, they’re a psychopath. They’re at the top because they have little empathy for others to hold them back.
I shove the annoying thought away and focus on my task at hand. Collecting a nice-sized bounty from Rochelle. I require it for the next stage. Time to find a figurative magnifying glass, one with a blistering beam that I can aim right at the bully Ericson.
Target
Blakely
“You’re far too pretty to be so sullen all the time.” Rochelle sighs and shakes her head. Silky gray-white layers shimmer in the florescent lighting as she passes me on her way to a bank of laptops.
“That’s sexist,” I say. “Besides, this is a sullen kind of career. I doubt you’d want a smiley, bubbly blonde with rainbows and happy faces all over her business card to exact retribution for you.”
Hunched over a laptop screen, she pauses her task to look up. Her skin is like wax. Any wrinkles her fifty-five years may have produced have been ironed away with repeated face lifts. “Good point, killer.” With a wink, she returns her focus to the screen.