Damaged: The Dillon Sisters Layla Frost (ebook reader with highlighter .txt) 📖

Me, me, me.

“Good idea. You’re already gonna rot in prison for the rest of your life, so adding murder won’t change much. On the plus side, at least it’ll be a short life. Bastards like you don’t last long on the inside.”

“I’m not… That’s not…” Frantically, he began redressing and gathering his shit. “I’ll charter a plane. If I get to the hanger soon—” The incessant ringing of his cell cut him off and his reality crashed over him. “It’s too late, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, weak and sobbing. “Who are you?”

“I’m the man who’s offering you an out.”

“You can help me escape?” Hope lit his face, and fuck, I was gonna enjoy snuffing it out.

“You could say that.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out an orange prescription bottle and shook it like a fatal rattle. “The permanent kind.”

“No. I’d never. No.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m guessing you’ve got about twenty minutes before they track your location, so whatever you’re going to do, you better decide fast.”

“I can run.” He bolted up and paced. “I have friends. They—”

“Will cut you off like the gangrene limb you are. I bet they’re already composing their statements against you.”

“I’m not going down for this. There are others. More powerful. I’ll flip on them.”

“You’ll still serve time. They don’t give immunity to pedophiles.”

He winced, as if the label hadn’t occurred to him. It probably hadn’t. Men like him rationalized and excused everything they did until, in their minds, they were blameless. Or even the victim. “I’ll figure it out. There has to be something.”

“There will be something… Your face and every single one of your dirty secrets splashed across news stations, papers, and websites as they investigate every breath you’ve ever taken.”

He continued pacing the room as he mumbled to himself.

I didn’t give a shit what he did. Even if he was breathing, his life was over.

But it’d be a fuck of a lot more satisfying to see him dead.

Crossing my arms, I leaned against the door and half-listened as he talked in circles to end right where he’d started.

Optionless.

He must’ve reached that same conclusion because his legs gave out and he dropped to the edge of the bed. “Give me the pills.”

His surrender was even sweeter than I’d expected.

I held the bottle out before snatching it back at the last second. “First, you need to wire everything from your offshore accounts.” At his hesitation, I shook my head. “Even now you’re a greedy asshole. What’re you going to do with the money? Be buried with it?”

Danielson had the nerve to look thoughtful, as if the idea held merit. After a long moment, he must’ve realized he was no pharaoh, but he was still a greedy asshole. “Why should I? The destruction is done. My life is over.”

“Think of it as penance for your soul.” Despite him sitting his hypocritical ass in the front pew every Sunday, that wasn’t incentive enough for him. “And if you give it away, your wife and your business partner that she’s fucking won’t get anything.”

Pettiness did what penance couldn’t. He picked up his phone and worked his way through the list, that time emptying out everything. Within seconds of his transfers, the money had already bounced around countless times, becoming untraceable and ensuring it went to his victims rather than being held up in court for years.

“Done,” he said, dropping his buzzing phone like it physically burned him to do the right thing.

With his side of the bargain complete, I tossed him the pills.

He bobbled the catch, the bottle hitting the ground with a rattle. Even once he grabbed it, he didn’t open it. He stared at it, spinning it back and forth. If he dragged his feet any longer, the cops would show before we got to the fun part.

“They’re not going to swallow themselves,” I prompted.

“Is there really no other way?” he whispered.

Had he been an innocent man, and had my heart not been black, the pain in his voice would’ve been almost moving. Since neither of those applied, it was just grating.

“Do you have a time machine?” I asked.

He scowled at me. “How could you be so heartless?”

Another bitter laugh burst from me. “I know what was on those screenshots. I’ve heard what you’ve done. You don’t deserve my sympathy. You don’t even deserve the mercy of a quick death.” I shifted away from the wall and lifted my shoulder. “I’ll leave you here to wait for the police.”

I reached for the knob, but before I could touch it, he shouted, “Wait!”

A cruel smile slashed across my face. I hid it before turning back.

His sweating, shaking hands struggled to open the bottle. Finally getting the lid off, he glanced down at the contents before looking up at me. “Will you stay?”

Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“Yes,” I agreed, my voice even.

Danielson sat frozen for a moment until sirens sounded in the distance. It wasn’t planned, and they weren’t even police sirens, but it was the push he needed to down the capsules with a few frantic, choking swallows. Once it was done, he collapsed onto the mattress, sobbing and chanting prayers to a god who would never listen to a man like him.

Never once did he offer apologies.

Never once did he show remorse.

Like in life, his final thoughts were for himself. Which was why it was so gratifying when the pills kicked in.

Because what I’d said earlier was true. Alfred Danielson didn’t deserve a quick death. Nor did he deserve a painless one.

“Something’s wrong,” he gasped seconds before he cried out.

If the pills were doing their job—and, based on his groans of suffering, they were—his insides would feel as if they were being torn apart by tiny, fiery jigsaws. Ripping and tearing and burning every inch of him.

That was what he deserved.

Leaning back against the wall, I enjoyed his torment.

I savored each tear.

Each thrash.

Each anguished cry.

And especially his last rattling, agonized breath.

Grabbing