Life is unfair, and there’s nothing I can do about that.
But I can do something about this cancer.
I go to the kitchen and take a small knife. Like everything else in the house, the knife is uncared for and—I test it against the edge of a paper towel—rather dull. But it will do. It isn’t like Rick Owen is made of Kevlar.
I walk upstairs. Loud voices come from the surround system attached to his TV. He’s laughing at some joke, sounding smug. Mr. Untouchable. Mr. Above the Law. He feels so secure in his small kingdom that he hasn’t even bothered to install a decent security system in his home.
Which is fine. Less work for me.
I step over the creaky spot between the master bedroom and full bathroom across the hall, having already scouted the house for this little visit. My target is facing the TV. On the giant screen, a pie flies through the air.
I step into the bedroom, pulling out a cloth I prepped during the drive. It’s been doused with chloroform and a few other choice chemicals. I put the fabric over his mouth and nose and press. Hard.
He spasms in surprise, and then his thick, sausagelike fingers come up, scrabbling to take my hands from his face and then gripping my wrists—but they lack force and I have an extremely strong grip. He should’ve spent more time in the gym rather than wasting it beating up his family.
After a few moments of struggle, he goes limp. I run water into the huge tub in the master bathroom, then place a note and a black ballpoint pen on the little table by his BarcaLounger. Handwritten, but nobody will ever find that it wasn’t Rick Owen who wrote it, especially since his fingerprints are on the pen.
Fuck you! Fuck you all! I’m not going into a goddam cage. He’s my fucking son! MY FUCKING SON!
The paper tore a little over MY FUCKING SON! All in character. So much rage. So much blame. Never, ever sorry about anything he’s done.
That done, I heft the slumped body, take it to the tub and lay him there. The chemicals are undetectable, or will be soon. Nobody will know he’s been knocked out.
I hold the man’s kitchen knife and examine it in the better light of the bathroom. Still dull, but one works with what one must. Rick Owen’s skin is soft. Given sufficient force, the knife will slice it like a block of tofu.
Time to say goodbye, little cancer.
Chapter Seven
Angelika
Not even half an hour later, Tolyan walks out of the house. The streetlight hits his face just so. I squint. Is that a smile?
Yes, it is. The corners of his mouth are curved upward. If he exuded casual confidence when he walked in, now he reminds me of a lion after a quick and easy hunt.
God, why do I keep having the most disturbing imagery? He might’ve been visiting his friend. People totally do that.
But then he pulls off his gloves. People don’t put on gloves before visiting a friend.
Maybe the friend’s obsessive-compulsive and can’t stand it when people touch their things with their bare hands. It’s possible. My first and only roommate was like that. She was constantly washing her hands with antibacterial wipes and gel.
But she kept her part of the apartment meticulously clean. The state of disrepair this place has says the friend isn’t obsessive-compulsive enough to demand Tolyan wear gloves when he comes over.
Tolyan starts to climb into his car. This is my chance to talk to him, but I can’t move. My internal alarm is blaring danger. He’s no Roy, but that doesn’t mean…
He might not be the safe harbor I’ve been seeking. Sure, he drove away the flasher. And blocked a drunken guy from stumbling into me in the ballroom. He also fed me dinner when he realized I was hungry.
But ticking those things off doesn’t silence my alarm.
Roy is a consistent monster. He wanted to rape me, but failed. Got caught. Got kicked out of the family. Paid the price and now hates me for that. He blames me for not spreading my legs when he wanted it, for “acting like I’m too good for him.” He has one unchanging motto: I take what I want, no matter what.
But Tolyan… He seems all over the place. Nice, then mean—albeit not to me. Back and forth, back and forth.
Unpredictability is dangerous.
But is it more dangerous than Roy?
Indecision gnaws at me. If I’m going to talk to Tolyan, I have to do it now…
The lights on Tolyan’s car come on, and he’s off. The sedan makes a left turn and vanishes from my view. Cursing under my breath, I follow, but his car blends into the traffic and I lose him.
Shit! I smack my steering wheel. I didn’t make up my mind in time, so this is what I get.
Gave you plenty of chances, Angelika. The universe sounds particularly mocking this evening.
Fine. Tomorrow, then. I’m going to be out jogging, and hopefully I’ll run into him and his Dobermans again.
But the next morning, he and his dogs are nowhere to be seen. I jog slowly, then make an extra loop just to be sure. Don’t dogs have to be walked every day?
Thankfully, the flasher isn’t around either, but maybe he isn’t going to be coming back after what happened. Bet it isn’t every day he has a large dog snapping at his penis.
I jog until I can’t dither anymore without being late for my shift at the café. Maybe Tolyan’s sick. He could be sleeping in. Or maybe he has somebody else deal with his dogs today. It is Saturday, after all.
When I’m back home, I shower, then thumb through my phone while munching on the leftover sandwich from yesterday. I can’t help noting that even though we haven’t run into each other today, he’s taking care of me. If this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. I need to quit overthinking what I saw after work.
A headline catches my eyes, and I stop scrolling.
MAN DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE.
I start to thumb down, then pause again. The street…and the house… The mailbox in front lying on the ground, the totally wrecked lawn…
It’s the place Tolyan went to last night.
I click on the headline. My hands shake as the implications hit me.
According to the article, someone named Rick Owen died in an apparent suicide. His body was found in a bathtub, which probably means he either tried to electrocute himself or slashed his wrists. No signs of struggle or forced entry. A new mother in the neighborhood found him because his car alarm started blaring endlessly in the morning, which woke her baby up, and Rick Owen didn’t come out to do anything about the noise.
He appeared to be upset over the impending divorce and the possible loss of custody of his son. He even kidnapped his own child two days ago, but the police didn’t arrest him because he seemed distraught rather than dangerous.
I shake my head. Harmless men do not kidnap their own children. Something about the way the cops treated him feels wrong, but then, these are the same people who said their hands were tied when it came to Roy’s threats against me. Apparently, unless and until he actually physically harms me, there’s nothing they can do. So it could’ve been the same with this guy who committed suicide.
Although…my gut says different. Tolyan was in that house for about half an hour. If the man was already dead, why didn’t he call the police?
Apprehension runs its chilly fingers down my spine. But how could Tolyan have had anything to do with the man’s death? And how could he have killed this Rick Owen without leaving any marks on him?