I think the worst thing was that she came to the funeral.
Well … obviously that wasn’t the worst thing. The absolute worst thing was that she’d caused my boy’s death but, apparently, we weren’t allowed to say that out loud.
She stood there, crying those crocodile tears, playing the role of Little Miss Innocent but I knew the truth.
Hell, we all knew the truth, but Heaven forbid we should say anything lest her innocent little heart break.
I knew she was trouble the moment Josh brought her home. Too sweet, too perfect. Her skin unblemished, her body perky and shapely. She hadn’t lived a day, hadn’t grated, hadn’t had to try for anything.
Of course she would get him to drive, even if they’d had too much. Of course he would agree; what boy would turn down something a girl like that asked?
And to see her standing there, like butter wouldn’t melt … that wasn’t justice.
The only true justice could come from making her suffer as my boy had suffered. From flaying her skin with a rusty razor, stringing her up before the bound and gagged and terrified eyes of her shit-kicking parents. From splitting her from her tasty groin right to the gullet and basking in the sticky warmth of her entrails.
Standing there, watching her blubbering those fake tears, her father’s arm around her shoulder, it took everything I had not to throttle her on the spot.
Tonight, though … my boy would have justice.
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