62

Riley got down to the basement and rushed Owen Whittaker like a bull, not realizing he was already cuffed. He slammed the little man to the ground and had his knee in the center of his back in a second.

Lazarus said, “I got him. Take her upstairs and call medical.”

He gave a silent nod. Piper, tears streaming, moved from Lazarus to Riley, her quivering hands covering her face. Riley paused at the stairs, glancing between Owen and Lazarus. “You good?” he asked.

“Unless he’s plannin’ on taking me down with just his kicks, I’m fine. Go.”

Riley hesitated, then helped Piper up the staircase. Lazarus lingered, only moving once the sound of the front door echoed and the footsteps above stopped.

Owen Whittaker stood, battered and heaving. His breaths were rough, like wind over old cloth. His eye was a blotchy mix of blood and marred skin; his good eye fixed on Lazarus.

“You went after Ava, Sophie ... her,” he said, motioning with his chin toward the stairs. “You feed on their hurt, take what they love. Why? What’s in it for you?”

Owen licked his lips, smearing some fresh blood across them. “I feel less alone.”

Lazarus’s gaze dropped to the floor. They were silent a long time.

Lazarus finally spoke. “Even in the abyss, now and then a little truth seeps through, don’t it?”

Outside, a breeze whispered, causing the unsecured front door upstairs to tap gently against its wall stop.

Lazarus lifted his weapon and fired.

The bullet tore through Owen Whittaker’s skull, shattering his teeth and exiting in a spray of blood and gore. Brain matter splattered the wall behind him, and droplets of blood rained down on Lazarus. The lifeless body slumped to the floor like a discarded puppet.

Lazarus set the gun down and started taking off his blood-speckled shirt as he stood over the corpse.

He had work to do.