There was this itch I’d tried not to scratch since I left Decklan’s house, an urge to find Samuel’s mother and tell her what her son had become. It passed. I knew my focus was on Sinnerman, and if I still felt the need once I’d found him, I’d make my decision then.
I sat back on the bed and bent open the copies I’d printed from the notebook. Within its pages were passages that alarmed me.
My birth was undesirable to her. I wasn’t meant to come into this world.
She’s dead to me like I am dead to her. Rest in peace Laurel, rest in peace.
I know why you didn’t want to have me. I don’t belong here. I think of things I am going to do in my mind. Not to you Laurel, but because of you. You drove me to it. You made me and one day I will show you and the rest of the world what I can do. When I look at a woman I only see their hair. Your hair. You sat in front of your mirror and brushed it for hours. Time you could have spent with me.
It’s what I have to do, and what it’s telling me to do inside me, inside my mind. It’s saying ‘you deserve this’. I want it to go out of my mind, but it can’t.
I broke the windows in Laurel’s art studio today. I threw rocks and then I watched them shatter. Dad is mad, but he doesn’t know I did it, and he’ll never know because he’s too stupid to think it was me. And then I went to the store and stole some stuff. I just picked out what I wanted and put it in my pocket. It was so easy. I didn’t even need it, I just wanted to do it because no one was watching and I could. I am starting to think I can do anything.
People will believe anything, especially girls. They’re so easy to manipulate. They seem so innocent, but they aren’t. They act like they’re nice, but just wait until they grow up and have babies. Babies they’ll give away because they can or maybe they’ll have them and then leave, just like Laurel did.
Everyone in my school wants to be me because I get into the most trouble and I show them all how to do it, how to prank, steal and get away with anything. I’m their king, the person they all look to. They’re my minions and I’m their leader. I’ll lead and you follow, I say. And it works every time.
My head hurts all the time and I can’t ever sleep. I lie awake in my room at night and think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about and sometimes I wonder if I’m no longer in control of my mind. I’m going to take a tire iron to my dad’s car tomorrow and tell him I saw the kid down the street do it. He doesn’t care about me; he only cares about his money.
I hid around a corner today while my dad was talking to my gran about me. He said I had to go and she said I could come and live at her house and he said no. He would give me money like he always had and be done with me. He was never a father to me anyway so I’ll take it and I’ll never come back. Neither one of them will ever see me again.
Yea, the light of the wicked shall be put out and the spark of his fire shall not shine. Job 18 and 5.
When I read the last passage, all I could think about was how the light of the wicked would be put out. The difference was, that light would be his, and I planned to be the one to put it out—forever.
I folded the pages up and stuck them in the side-table drawer and then wandered through the house and found Giovanni outside on his back deck with a Robert B. Parker novel in his hand and Lord Berkeley at rest by his side. There was one thing different about Lord Berkeley though. Someone had dressed him up in a double-breasted suit with a velvet jacket over the top. He looked ridiculous and hot, and I imagined any minute he would turn around and say Holmes was his new name, and that I could call him Sherlock.
I tried not to show my disapproval and faced Giovanni and said, “I didn’t know you liked to read.”
He folded the cover flap over a page and closed it and looked up at me.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
That was an understatement.
He assessed Lord Berkeley and said, “Not my idea. It was my sister. She couldn’t help herself. I can pull it off if you like; I can tell you’re not a fan.”
“I’m sure it cost her a fortune, so I expect it will be fine to leave it on him a little longer. What are you reading?”
“Looking for Rachel Wallace. I’ve found myself rereading some of his old works since he passed last year.”
“I like period novels—Austen, Bronte, Dickens, that type of thing,” I said. “I’ve collected books for years.”
“A fellow reader. We have more in common all the time.”
I sat down beside him.
“I feel like there’s still so much I don’t know about you. It’s strange just being here. I mean, we’ve only really known each other for a couple weeks.”
He leaned forward and said, “What is it you’d like to know—you can ask me anything.”
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“I’ve watched you around your brother, with the men that lurk around here, and you have this massive house with all kinds of security and it seems everyone looks to you for answers, and then there’s your car and all this other stuff you own, and every room in this house is decorated with expensive things, and you—”
He reached for my hand and folded it inside both of his.
“What do you want to ask me?”
I wanted to take five and prolong the moment, but it was here—and it was now or never.
“Are you the head person like a boss guy—some kind of don or something? I’ve seen stuff on TV, but you don’t wear a ring, and in the movies the people kiss the ring and since you don’t have one, I don’t know if that’s true, or if I’m crazy, or…”
I felt so stupid when the words poured out of my mouth, and I was sure the constant twitch in my leg wasn’t helping things either.
He released my hand and leaned back and acted like I’d just asked him how he took his coffee.
“I have many people I look after, including my own family—but no ring.”
I guessed it was his way of saying, Yes Sloane, I’m a mafia boss. I dabble in mafia affairs. Can I bump off someone for you?
He continued.
“I’m involved in a handful of businesses, and I use the money I’ve earned over the years for many things.” He stretched his arm out all the way and said, “Come with me. I’d like to show you something.
An hour later we were parked outside a building in downtown Salt Lake City.
“What is this place?” I said.
“A shelter for women and children.”
I looked around. It didn’t look like any shelter I’d ever seen. The building itself was a work of art. The outside was so luminescent, it glowed. The building towered above the others in the area. The flower beds that surrounded all four sides of the building were immaculate and filled with rich shades of purple, pink, blue, and white. They reminded me of the atrium at Bellagio in Las Vegas. The smell of honeysuckle penetrated the air. I stood a moment and appreciated the beauty that radiated from all sides before I walked by two Italians dressed up as security guards and followed Giovanni inside.
When I walked through the door I heard, “Mr. Luciana. Good to see you again.”
“And you Rochelle.” He faced me. “This is Sloane. I’ll be showing her around.”
She nodded and then retreated behind a desk in the center of the room.
“Do people always let you do whatever you want?” I said.
He smiled and said, “Most of the time, yes. But it helps when you own the place.”
We walked into the different areas of the facility and in fifteen minutes I’d seen enough to last a lifetime: women with blackened eyes, children on crutches, some with broken arms or legs. Some walked around freely while others were downtrodden and stuck to their beds.