Page 65 of Ruin
The physical destruction feels good. Necessary. Like breaking the spell he's had me under.
But it's not enough. Nothing will be enough until he pays for what he's done.
I sink to my knees among the broken glass and scattered evidence, staring at a photograph of my parents on their wedding day.
Young, beautiful, full of hope for a future that a twenty-seven-year-old sociopath would cut short sixteen years later.
They trusted the system.
My fatherbelievedin justice, in the law, in doing the right thing even when it cost him everything.
And where did it get him?
A bullet in the head while his daughter watched from hiding.
The system failed them. Failed me. Failed everyone who tried to stop monsters like Cassius from taking what they wanted.
But I won't fail them.
I gather the scattered papers, organize them into neat piles despite my shaking hands.
Evidence of his crimes.
Proof of his guilt.
Documentation of a year-long conspiracy that starts with multiple judge murders and ends with him manipulating their daughter.
There's enough here to destroy him if it reaches the right people.
But "if" is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
He's had years to buy judges, intimidate prosecutors, eliminate witnesses.
Years to make himself untouchable, except he's not untouchable. Not to me.
I'm theoneperson who can get close enough to hurt him.
The one person he trusts completely.
The one person heloves, and more importantly, the one person who knows exactly how to destroy him.
I walk to my bedroom and open the safe hidden behind my dresser.
Inside, wrapped in an old pillowcase that still smells faintly of my mother's perfume, is my father's personal weapon—a .38 Special he'd purchased for protection after receiving threats during high-profile cases
The gun feels heavier than I expected.
I've never fired a weapon before, but I know the basics from crime shows and legal cases.
Point, squeeze the trigger, hope for the best.
At close range, with my target standing still and unsuspecting, accuracy matters.
After a quick Google search, I check the cylinder with fingers that barely shake now—still loaded after all these years.
Six bullets. More than enough for what I have in mind.
But first, I need to hear it from his own mouth.
