Page 13 of Malachai
I studied him. The sweat. The way his eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. The little muscle jumping in his jaw. He was a big fucking liar.
“You knew they were disappearing.”
Dutch scoffed, trying to find some bravado.
“Girls disappear from clubs all the time. They run off. Go home. Find husbands. Whatever.”
I tilted my head and reached into my jacket. His eyes dropped to my hand.
The kitchen knife came out slowly. I’d grabbed it from my apartment before I left. Nothing fancy. Just sharp.
Dutch took a step back and hit the couch. Nowhere left to go.
“Now hold on—”
“You knew.”
His breathing got shallow and fast.
“You can't prove that.”
“I had all the proof I needed when I woke up in that psycho’s house.”
He barely had time to react before the blade buried itself in his shoulder.
Dutch howled, slamming into the wall. Blood soaked through his shirt instantly.
“JESUS CHRIST!” he spat.
I grabbed his collar and shoved him into the nearest kitchen chair. He landed hard.
“You knew what he was doing.”
“I didn't—”
I twisted the knife.
Dutch screamed again, his head falling back.
“Try that answer again.”
Tears were already running down his face.
“He paid good money!” The words tumbled out.
“There it is. The truth.”
I pulled the knife free.
“Midnight, I really didn’t know. I thought he was just rough with them,” Dutch said weakly. “I thought maybe he liked it a little rough. Some guys do. I didn't know he was killing them.”
“How many?”
“I don't—I don't remember—”
“Try.”
“Seven,” the word came out broken. “Eight. I don't know. I stopped counting.”
