Dirty Stack (The Devious Games Duet 2)

“You and Susanna the other night,” I say. “I caught the tail end of a conversation. That’s it. It was just a safety check, and I was listening for maybe thirty seconds.”

“Takes probably three seconds to do a safety check,” she says.

“I know. But you were talking about me.”

She swallows.

“You were smart. Gathered you were filling her in without really filling her in and it was believable. My woman’s got it all. Beauty. Brains.” I smile.

She huffs and storms outside.

I get the box into the back of the SUV and when I close it, she’s at the shoreline, looking out at the water, arms folded.

“Aren’t you gonna check in on him?” she asks.

“Yeah. Checking on you first.”

“He’s on your phone, too? His… room?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see.”

I sigh, then pull my phone from my coat and unlock it, slide my thumb across to the app and bring Raymond’s cell up.

He’s sitting on his bed, watching the news that’s being projected on the wall, back against the wall, one knee bent, looking relaxed, holding a water bottle, tapping it against his calf as he stares at the screen.

She turns her head away.

I close the app.

“Things have been uneventful with him,” I say, watching her chewing her cheek. “Tony comes every day,” I continue, “long enough to give him food, water, change the bucket out. Hose him down if necessary. Give him a pain pill. No current injuries. Just some residual rib pain. His ribs are wrapped.”

“What about his knee?”

“He’ll have a limp the rest of his life. Maybe pain. Dunno.”

Don’t know; don’t fucking care.

“Maybe I should-”

“No,” I cut her off.

“No? No, what?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

“No. I don’t want you down there,” I say.

Her eyes blaze with annoyance and her hands go to her hips. “Oh, because it’s all your decision, right? How do you know I was even gonna say I wanted to go down there?”

“Where your safety is concerned, yes, I’ll make that decision. And that’s not just your physical safety. That’s your emotional wellbeing as well.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“What were you gonna say?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask about him is what I was gonna say. What do you think I could possibly have to talk to him about?”

“Ask him if he wants to go to the camp or die? Warn him about what’s happening so you can somehow convince him to be on his best behavior, so he doesn’t wind up with his head on a spike as a warning to everyone else? It’s not his choice and he’s not right in the head, you do remember your last conversation down there with the lasagna, right? He’s been sentenced. I’m the judge and jury. He’s almost out of our hair and out of our lives. This is a result of his actions; he doesn’t even need to exist for you. From here on out. And baby, I know it’s a big ask, but I’d really fuckin’ love it if we could look at finding ways to put it behind us and maybe even let him get moved this week so it could conceivably be the last fuckin’ time we even talk about him.”

She scowls, looking even more pissed.

I finish with, “Though obviously if you need to talk about it or him I won’t stop you. But I’d love it if we could fuckin’ move on.”

I search her face. “Do you feel like you need to see him one more time for closure?”

“No. I don’t. Though I don’t like you throwing the word no at me like your word is law when I haven’t even gotten a full sentence out. I wanted it over a long time ago and you’re telling me you want it to be over too, so… get it done. Do whatever you feel you need to do. Just not murder. Not you doing it, not you ordering it. Okay?” She puts her hands together and swipes one over the other. “Finished. Done. But do not dismiss me like that and not let me get a sentence out of my mouth before you start laying down the law. Okay?”

“Okay. My apologies. Where he’s concerned, things clearly get emotional.”

“Clearly,” she snaps.

I empty my lungs, waiting to see if she’s got anything else to add. “I’ll be back in five,” I finally say and head into the house.

And I’m suddenly cautiously optimistic. Because it feels and sounds like she’s ready to put this behind us.

***

I get downstairs and unlock the door.

He straightens when he sees me, looking shocked. Looking far more well than he should. Not getting beaten agrees with him. It doesn’t agree with me, but whatever.

“Hey,” I greet.

I set down his ration of water, a new toilet paper roll, and a heated Lean Cuisine on his bed. Chicken Teriyaki stir fry. For fun. He gets this often. And I’m not changing his shit bucket today. Fuck that.