Counterfeit Love

"He lives alone. But his shed is the best place. He keeps all his... illegal things there."

"What kind of illegal things?"

"Some of the evidence of the things he has done. The way I figure it, taking him out there means we can leave it. The cops aren't going to be looking too hard into his case. Besides, there won't be any evidence left behind. I think you know me well enough at this point to know I don't leave any details out of my plans. I was up all last night checking and double-checking."

"I wasn't doubting you, doll. I just want to be part of the plan. You know, since I am the one doing it."

"I'm going," she blurted out, pushing her salad around her plate, seeming to have no appetite. Maybe it said something about me that on the eve of a killing, I was able to eat like a bear. But I really didn't give a fuck.

"Okay," I agreed, nodding. "How are we sure he will go to the shed?"

"He seems to go there every night. Time varies, but he goes. And if he's in there, this can be done without anyone seeing us. There are lines of giant trees lining both sides of the property. No one should see anything. We'll be careful too, of course."

"Of course." No one could ever accuse me of being overly careful, but even I had to admit this was a situation that would require it. Even if no one would miss the bastard. Even if the law didn't put much effort into it. They would have to track us down if the neighbors caught us on film or got too good of descriptions. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"I don't know if I will ever be ready," she admitted. "But it has been weighing on my conscience since figuring out who he is. Knowing he is out there, doing things to other girls like he'd done to me. He likes girls," she added with emphasis that made her meaning clear. "Never women. Which is why I am assuming he never married. It needs to happen."

"Are you going to tell your family? Ferryn? Your therapist?"

"I honestly don't know," she admitted. "I mean Ferryn eventually. And probably my mom once things are, you know, done." Once all the men who'd dared to put their hands on her got sent right to hell where they belonged. "I can't tell my therapist for obvious reasons."

Right.

"But if this makes you spiral? Or if it starts to help you move forward?"

"I guess those are two different questions. If I spiral, I have a thousand reasons in my back pocket. If I start to make progress, I guess I can tell her I did the fire exercise she suggested."

"What? Like you write his name on a sheet of paper and burn it?" I scoffed.

"I know," she agreed, snorting a little. "She means the best. And I'm sure that probably is cathartic for some issues. But burning his name isn't going to assuage the guilt. It isn't going to wipe away the memories. It isn't going to make my body feel like it is mine again."

"Do you think doing this is going to do any of that?" I asked, an aching in my chest at her words.

"I don't know," she admitted, shrugging. "But I do know it needs to be done." She pushed her plate away, reaching for her coffee instead. "I know that sounds callous, but I guess my ideas on what is just punishment and what this country thinks is just punishment are very different. I don't think you can fix people like him. Like all those men I endured. I don't believe they belong in society. And I don't think sitting behind bars is good enough either. There are certain kinds of sick that can never be made well again. Death is the only cure, and the only way to truly protect the community at large."

"You don't need to convince me, babe. Even fucking cold-blooded killers have no fucking patience for pedos. They don't think being behind bars is good. And they don't like the idea of them ever getting out again either. So they take care of it. And the world is a better place because of it."

"Yeah," she agreed, gaze still lowered.

"Hey," I called, making her grudgingly lift her head. "Drinks, hot tub, and a movie of your choice?"

"You are going to let me choose? You, who wouldn't let me pick a single song the entire ride up here?"

"I can't help it if your music taste is awful, angel. You're fucking perfect in every other way but that. I have a lot higher tolerance for shitty movies than I do shitty music," I told her, watching as she tried to shoot me a disapproving look, but failed because she broke into a smile.