The Subtle Art of Brutality

“In all reality I threw the letters away as soon as I’d read each one. I couldn’t produce them if the cops wanted me to. But I threatened him anyways. It only seemed right that I held a little power over his head. But, Elam...he freaked like I’d never seen before. I didn’t really think about it before the words came out of my mouth—I do that, but most times I catch myself, thank God—so I just said it. To me they were pretty much just words. To him it threatened everything his entire life was built on. Cut and dry. I was the worst thing he could ever face in this life. The worst.

“He threatened my life. Said he’d do anything. I know he meant it. He called me his ‘little queen’ and said he would put me in my throne one day. He just started spouting all this bizarre, creepy, threatening stuff. I was so scared. I ran. And I haven’t been back since.”

Flashback: Dr. Windslow.

“...I need you to find a certain young lady for me.”

“Your daughter?”

“Absolutely not. As it were she was a...mistress.”

Somewhere in the corners of my mind dots start to come together and, once again in my life, I become rather disappointed with myself. Sometimes I can see it all, sometimes I miss so much.

“Anyways, Delilah became like she was my own little girl...”

“I don’t remember the first time I had sex with my father.”

“Well, why do you need a private detective to find a woman who you think will still want to be with you? If she’s that in to you she shouldn’t be hard to find.”

I should kill him now and spare her the looming threat.

I should kill Elam now and spare Delilah the looming threat.

“I do not hunt women for angry, jealous men.” I say this and I mean it.

I do not hunt women for angry, jealous men. I say this and I do it.

I do not hunt women for angry, jealous men. I say this and I must un-do it.

I have hunted a woman for an angry, jealous man.

Damn you, Richard. Damn you.

I stand up.

Delilah looks at me and says: “I guess I’m done.”

I’m not sure how loud I say, “I’m not trying to interrupt your life story.” But I say it. Maybe just to myself. Maybe I want her to read it in my eyes. Either way I hope she can hear me.

The group leader eyeballs me for a moment and then begins the closing prayer. I head to the stairs. Maybe I can head off Derne and take care of this quietly.

Maybe not.

65

A cacophony of women start at the top of the stairs as I’m getting to the bottom.

Something hangs over me. Ominous. It feels like a death shawl. Find the edge of it, the corner and throw it off like a child does when they get lost underneath a sheet they’ve been playing with.

This thing hanging over me is pushing in my chest, telling me this thing is getting ugly. Unseen until now. This will end poorly. I have to do something to get out from underneath it; a storm cloud roiling with lightning getting ready to strike Delilah. I did this. I need to undo it.

How could I not see that Elam Derne was asking me to hunt down his victim?

The women’s noise follows me. Tide. Flood. Now that the confessing is over the loud, pop culture and baking talk has begun.

“Oh no, honey. Use egg wash so that doesn’t happen—”

“She was married twice before they got together when they were filming...oh my, I forgot already but they were co-stars—”