Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)(70)
Author: Joanna Wylde

“Fuck you,” I growled. “She said you were beating her up. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Becca. She did it to herself.”

I hung up the phone, looking around my apartment. Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to believe him—could he be lying? Oh, God. Please. The phone rang again. Teeny.

“Don’t hang up,” he said quickly.

“You’re lying,” I said, my voice flat. “You’re lying like you always lie. What’s your game, Teeny?”

“You’re in denial, Becca. But don’t worry, I took a picture of her at the morgue, so that you could see for yourself. Perhaps you shouldn’t look—such a disturbing image . . . But you do what you think is right.”

Then he laughed and I knew it was true. She was really dead. Teeny was way too proud of himself and I knew in that instant he’d killed her.

Murdered her, just like she’d said he would.

And I let it happen.

A sudden vision of her came to me. I’d been five years old, maybe six. It was Halloween, and she dressed me up like a little princess. She was dressed like a queen, and we’d gone trick-or-treating for hours, followed by a sleepover in the living room.

I couldn’t remember the town or where we’d been living or anything like that . . . but I remembered the crowns we’d made together. She’d used wire to build the frames, then we’d covered them with tinfoil and glued on bright glitter.

She’d been the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s really dead, isn’t she?” I whispered, my voice small.

“Yes,” he replied. “She’s really dead. Here’s the reality, sweetheart—she was a bad wife and she got what she deserved.”

I threw the phone across the room.

That. Evil. Bastard.

It started ringing again. Not the headset I’d thrown, but the one in my bedroom. He was there, waiting for me like some sort of hideous troll determined to destroy everything I loved. I shouldn’t answer. I knew I shouldn’t answer.

“Hello,” I said, my voice dull.

“It’s really sad about your mom,” Teeny said. “I’m devastated, naturally. Losing your wife is a terrible thing. Fortunately I’ve met someone else already and now that she’s gone, it simplifies my life. That’s why I thought it would be best to put this final decision in your hands.”

“Decision?”

“She’s already been cremated, of course,” he said. “Can’t have a body lying around forever. It’s up to you what happens next, Becca. There are final expenses—these things aren’t cheap.”

Numbness had taken over my body. I stared across my room, trying to wrap my head around the reality that my mother was actually dead. Then his words sank in.

“These things aren’t cheap.”

Suddenly I understood. I understood all of it.

“What do you want?” I asked, the emotion draining from my voice because I already knew the answer. Teeny wanted money. Teeny always wanted money.

I felt his triumph through the phone, hateful toad.

“Three thousand dollars,” he said. “You send me that and I’ll send your mother’s ashes. I’ll text the photo of her body and a picture of the death certificate as soon as we hang up. You have three days to send the money. Otherwise I’m dumping her out.”

The phone call ended.

God, not even Teeny could be this evil. But he could. He was capable of anything, and we both knew it. I walked out to my kitchen and slumped down into a chair, bumping the table. The vase of wildflowers I’d picked last weekend tipped over, spilling water across everything. Goddammit. I reached over and grabbed it, throwing it at the wall with all my strength.

The shattering sound it made was sweet in my ears. Crisp. Clean.

Liberating.

I looked around the apartment for something else to throw. What I saw sickened me, it was so pathetic. A thousand little touches over the years had turned my place into a home. Some of them were my own creations—pillows and curtains. Throws. I’d taken cheap art posters and hung them on the walls, as if that could ever give me a hint of class.

Who the hell did I think I was fooling?

It didn’t matter what I did or where I lived, because one thing would never change. Becca Jones was trash. My mom had been trash. Now she was dead and the same evil bastard was still calling the shots, like a poisonous spider I’d never be able to escape from.

Everything I’d done was a lie.

Time to destroy it. All of it.

I pushed myself up and out of the chair so hard it crashed over backward. Then I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed the chef’s knife Regina had given me when I first moved out. It was sharp. Maybe too sharp, because I’d cut myself on it more than once. It stayed sharp, too, because Earl had given me a whetstone to go with it, and the crazy man wasn’t above doing spot checks to make sure I cared for my tools, kitchen and otherwise.

Lifting the knife, I tested the edge with my finger, a line of red fire appearing.

The pain felt good.

Simple and easy to understand, unlike the pain still ripping through me every time I pictured my mom’s face. Had he beaten her to death? Shot her? Maybe he just got her drunk and pushed the car over the edge—that would be simple enough.

Why the fuck hadn’t I found a way to get her the money?

I grabbed the couch cushion I’d made from Earl’s old shirts and sank the knife deep inside, pretending it was Teeny’s face. Then I ripped it open and pulled out the stuffing, throwing it on the ground. Next was a wall hanging I’d made from strips of cloth sewn together in a sunburst pattern. Didn’t take long. After that I went after the posters. They ripped almost too easily, making a beautiful tearing noise that failed to satisfy.

Spinning, I looked for something else to destroy.

The curtains. Tearing them would be better . . . They were more work, which was good. The red fabric was heavier and I had to drag a chair over to reach, because when I tried to yank them down they were too strong for me.

Earl had hung the rods, and Earl didn’t do shit halfway.

First I cut them into strips, savoring the sound of the knife ripping through the threads. Then I pulled the rods down, throwing each of them across the room in a different direction. In my mind they were spears, punching holes through Teeny’s chest.

Strips of fabric puddled like blood across the floor.

I eyed my couch. I wanted to kill it. I wanted to kill everything. I started toward it, figuring I’d start with the cushions before I attacked the frame. I could use my hammer on that part.