The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [37]
Deacon walked over to her and stood three inches from her face. A common intimidation tactic used during interrogation was to invade someone’s space. Vail had been taught the technique by a seasoned NYPD detective. For Deacon, it came naturally.
Vail was not about to yield her ground. She knew how the game was played, so she stood there and stared into the man’s dark eyes, his beer breath battering her nose.
He rested his hands on his hips and looked down at her. “You have a lot of nerve, coming here, thinking you can buy my son from me.”
“He’s not happy, Deacon. If you want what’s best for him, take my offer. Full custody for me, the house is all yours. No strings.”
Deacon clenched his jaw. “I don’t think you heard me, Karen. Answer’s no.”
“What possible reason would you have for wanting him around, if all you’re going to do is put him down all the time?”
“Is that what he says?” Deacon shook his head. “Fucking kids. None of ’em tell the truth. It’s like a disease.”
“I believe him, Deacon. Jonathan has no reason to lie to me.”
“Well, whoop-dee-do for you, Miss Perfect Parent.”
“If you won’t take my offer, I’m gonna go back to court, let the judge decide.”
Deacon’s face curled into a snarl. “You bitch. Do that and you’ll be sorry.”
Vail smirked and shook her head. “I don’t respond to your threats anymore, Deacon. There’s nothing you can do to hurt me.”
With that, Vail felt something hook behind her right foot—and Deacon’s right hand push against her chest. She was moving backward faster than she could react, and a second later her head struck the wood floor in an explosion of blinding pain.
fifteen
I awake with a start. I realize I’d fallen asleep in my room. Shit! He’s coming. Creaky floorboards. Heavy footsteps.
Before I fell asleep, he was with a whore. I know her, she’s been here before. I’ve seen her eyes, the way she looks at him. They’re mean eyes.
The door swings open and my father stands there, his overalls unbuttoned at the top, the straps dangling at his sides.
“There was someone here.”
He sneers. “She was a bitch, I got rid of her.”
“I didn’t like her.”
“Yeah, well, she didn’t like you none, either. She thought you were bad. Ugly. Just like your mama saw you.”
Mother. She didn’t know what it meant to be a mother. She couldn’t have. She was a bitch, just like the ones he brings home.
“Let me tell you something, them bitches are real bad. They see you as trash. Ugly, rotting trash. The whores always say mean things about you. They say you’re ugly and you’re lucky to have a father like me who takes care of you.”
Lucky is not the word I use to describe my life.
He comes over to the bed and I’m waiting for the belt to come whipping at me. I shy away, waiting. . . .
“It’s your mama of a whore’s fault you’re ugly. She made you this way.”
I lift my head slowly, still waiting for the leather to snap against my skin. But I notice he’s not wearing a belt.
“Time for a haircut, your hair’s gettin’ too long! Come on, now!”
He grabs me and pulls me off the bed—
Amazing stuff! He realized he had to do something with it, publish it somewhere. He could use someone else’s name so no one would know it was him. Or maybe I do want people to know what I endured. Fiction or nonfiction? It’s all true, but who’d believe it? They’d look at him like he was the bad one, because who wants to be associated with someone who’d been treated like that?
But there were people who would be interested in this stuff. People who’d eat it up, consider it downright brilliant. They’d read it and read it again, show it to other people, scrutinize it until they broke it down by word choice, grade level, and whatever other silly metrics they’d designed to evaluate writing.
And the cops would analyze it, too.
Let them comb through it, they’ll never get anywhere with it. Of course it meant he’d have to cover his tracks. So be it. Put it out there and see what reaction his readers had. If it came off well, maybe he’d go for a bigger audience.
He closed the laptop and yawned hard, but a jolt of pain made him wince.