Crickets chirp. Frogs croak. A wolf howls in the distance. The old warden’s house creaks and groans with every shift of the breeze like a crotchety old man complaining about the weather.

I could torture her for the information about the whereabouts of her old man like I promised, but I’m good at reading people. She’s telling the truth. Not the entire truth, but at least about the part where she hasn’t spoken to him in years. Torture is fucking pointless unless there’s something to be revealed and torture on an innocent isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds.

And not as fucking fun as spilling the blood of her old man will be.

I press play on the boom box on the floor and sink down onto the couch. Creed’s “Arms Wide Open” fills the empty space in the room, but not in my cold black heart.

That one can’t ever be filled.

It’s officially been one year since that night, and I feel like drowning my fucking sorrows. Funny, until that night, I didn’t think I was capable of sorrow.

I sit silently in the dark only able to see slightly past the cherry end of my cigarette. I’m alone except for a half-empty bottle of Jack and my own fucking thoughts.

This morning, I almost told Frankie the real reason I need to get to her father.

Instead, I bit my tongue and locked her in the room for the rest of the day to avoid talking to her for fear of letting it slip again. She don’t need to know all the reasons why. She’s bait. Bait don’t need to know shit.

I set down the bottle and pull out the picture I keep tucked into the inner pocket of my cut. It’s dark, but I don’t need to see the picture. I know what’s on it. I just want to feel it between my fingers. I’ve memorized every curve and line and detail of the ultrasound. Some people claim they’re hard to make out, but not this one. Not for me. I see every curve of skull, the outline of a little heart in the center. Tiny lips sucking an even tinier thumb. At least, that’s what Morgan told me the baby was doing, although to me it looks as if it’s giving the finger. I chuckle, but it’s short-lived. I reach for the bottle, tilting it high and downing several swallows before setting it back down.

It’s said that you don’t know who you really are or what you’re capable until you’re connected to another human being. This baby, who never had the chance to be born, is that connection for me.

I know who I really am now. What I’m really capable of.

And what I’m capable of is the stuff of nightmares.

I’ll do those things, and I’ll do them gladly because I’m close. So fucking close to setting things right. Or, as right as I can set them if Griff gets a hit from Frank on the picture of his daughter we’ve sent out into the world.

I pull out a new burner phone and dial Rage’s number. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. A habit I thought I’d broken myself of that whiskey has apparently made me forget.

I tuck the phone back into my pocket before I can press send. It’s too late. Too fucking late to rebuild a bridge that’s better off burned. I’d broken my own number one rule. No loyalties. And look where it’s gotten me.

Making that call would be like trying to revive a chicken after its head’s been chopped off and all its feathers plucked.

I was Rage’s mentor. She was sixteen years old when I first saw her kill a man. The emptiness in her eyes changed to sheer fucking pleasure in that moment. I wanted to help her harness her skills and reign in the shit that would’ve resulted in her either in the ground or on death fucking row. I wanted to teach her because there was no one there to teach me and figuring that shit out on your own is like climbing uphill while the fucking hill is turning into a mountain.

Rage proved she had feelings, even though they aren’t like the rest of society’s, when she fell in love with a biker named Nolan. Good kid. The problem is I helped her rescue him from some shit one night and that shit went to complete shit. Nolan was saved.

Can’t say the same thing about my relationship with Rage.

I look to the closed door of the back bedroom where Frankie is asleep and cuffed to the bed.

I sigh and clutch the ultrasound to my bare chest. I drain the bottle of whiskey. I comfort myself with thoughts of revenge. Of bloodshed.

That’s why I’m here.

That’s what this is all about.

It’s why Frankie Helburn will die.