Torture to Her Soul
Page 93

Regret.
I've never regretted anything.
I certainly don't want to start now.
There hasn't been a murder in Dexter, New York in over a decade. Not a single arson. Not even an assault. The only crime the small community sees is thievery, but one night in town, I destroy it all.
It's front-page news of the Watertown Daily Times.
Community Shocked by Violence
I stroll into Cobalt two days later, clutching a copy of the newspaper. Kelvin watches me curiously, not bothering to bow his head as I walk right past. I hear Ray's voice echoing through the club, loud and angry. Something has him in a bad mood.
He's about to get much, much happier, I think.
The yelling is coming from the office in the back. I stop by the bar, grabbing a beer to soothe my nerves, and head toward his office after taking a swig. I knock on the door, his grumbling cutting off at the sound, before he snaps, "Somebody's interrupting. I'll call you back after I deal with them."
My insides instinctively tense at his obvious anger, but outwardly I show no sign of distress. I hear him stomp across the room, the door yanked open, his voice calling out. "This better be good."
He sees me standing there, his expression shifting with surprise. He wasn't expecting it to be me.
"Vitale," he says. "Do you need something from me?"
"No," I respond, holding the paper out, tapping it against his broad chest, "but you needed something from me."
I can tell he's annoyed, but he reins it in, grabbing the paper and glancing at the front page. I stroll past him, not waiting for an invitation, and take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
"Perdio!" he exclaims, shutting the door as he lingers behind me. "You did it, didn't you?"
I read the article while sitting in traffic. I know exactly what it says. Police are working to identify the female body found shot and burned in the old house in Dexter. Nowhere in the article lists her name, but it's only a matter of time before they figure it out.
"You did it," he says again, sounding awestruck as he walks over and plops in his chair. He scans the paper for a moment before his eyes meet mine. "You fucking did it."
I don't respond.
I don't have to.
His elated laughter tells me no words are necessary. He slaps the paper down on top of the desk as he leans back in his chair, eyeing me.
"I gotta be honest, Vitale," he says. "I didn't think you'd do it. I really thought you'd gone soft, that you'd gotten too weak to handle business. That girl got under your skin, and I thought she broke you… I thought you forgot who you were, that you forgot why we were here… that you forgot what that family did. What they stole from you. I thought she made you forget, but now I'm thinking maybe you didn't forget at all."
"I'll never forget."
Ray glances down at the paper once more. "And you didn't forgive, either."
"Of course I didn't," I say. "There's no forgiveness for what happened. They paid for their betrayal, so it's over now. I took care of it. It's done."
He stares at me, not responding to my declaration. It makes my stomach clench from anxiety.  After a moment, his eyes drift back to the newspaper on his desk as he drums his fingers against the old wood.
"You know, I had a run in with that detective not long ago," he says. "That Jameson prick."
"So did I. He always has questions."
"Yeah, but this time he knew things, things he shouldn't know. He connected dots he shouldn't be able to connect. Maybe you aren't getting sloppy, but someone's getting mouthy, and I don't like it. I don't like being harassed. One reason I've always relied on you, Vitale, is because you kept them at bay. But that isn't working anymore. It isn't working, because there's a rat in our midst."
"Any idea who?"
He eyes me hard. "A few months ago, the picked up your girl, didn't they? She went down to the station with them."
It's like he's doused my body in gasoline and lit a match right in front of me. The cold tension that seizes me makes my heart ache in my chest. Anger brews in my gut. I stare back at him, those words repeatedly rolling through my head. I can't believe he'd say that.
Can't believe he'd suggest it.
Sitting up straight, I point my beer at him, not liking where this is going. "Don't say it unless you mean it." I take a swig, having to force it down my throat. "Some things can't be taken back, Ray, so I'm warning you…"
"You're warning me?"
"I'm warning you," I say again. "Don't say it unless you mean it."
He hesitates.
Strained silence chokes the room.
After a moment, he looks away, opening a drawer in his desk and grabbing a large manila envelope. He pauses as he holds it before opening the top flap. He glances inside, pulling out the contents, and holds it out so I can see. My gaze drifts from him to it, and I tense at the photograph… a photograph of Karissa, standing outside the police station, Detective Jameson right beside her.
No.
No fucking way.
She wouldn't do that.
She wouldn't talk to them.
Not about anything.
Not about me.
No way.
Ray drops that photograph to the desk before pulling out another… and another… and another… dropping each one on top of the last. A dozen, maybe more. I stop counting. I stop looking. My eyes meet Ray's. He doesn't look smug at all. I sense no satisfaction.