Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
“It was. The neighborhood was so different after that. Even though they arrested him rather quickly for Hoyt’s death, there were stories that he’d abused a lot of other kids over the years. Kids stopped going outside to play. My mom or dad always drove me to school after that. But the worst thing was that he was only sentenced to fifteen years in prison.”
Fifteen years. Grinder, the SAA of my charter, served that much time for a crime he didn’t even commit. Some fucking child-murdering sicko did the same amount of time? “Jesus Christ.”
“I remember how angry my parents were. They called representatives and judges. My father worked on the campaign for the man who ran against the DA in the next election. It was a pretty big deal out here.”
“I can understand why.”
Her lips tighten into a flat, angry line. “He didn’t even serve the full sentence. I had just graduated from college when there was an uproar about him possibly returning to the neighborhood.”
“Really?”
Margot nods. “His mother had passed away and left the house to him.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I was.” Her hands clench into fists in her lap. “I was so…furious. That wasn’t justice. All I could think about were Hoyt’s parents. They never recovered from losing their son. They moved away. But that disgusting creature was out and about, free to live his life.”
The answer to my question is dangling in Margot’s closet but I ask anyway. “What did you do?”
She lifts her head. Slowly, a wicked gleam replaces the sorrow in her eyes.
“I started planning.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Margot
Margot, 22 years old.
No trespassing. We don’t call 911. A drawing of a handgun sits in between the two warning sentences.
Since Mr. Gade is a felon, I highly doubt he has a gun in the house. The sign is meant to scare all the people who protested when he moved into the neighborhood after being released from prison. That must make for a fun visit when his parole officer stops by. Or maybe his parole officer hasn’t had time to visit yet. Who knows, maybe he thinks the sign is funny.
A gun wouldn’t save him tonight anyway.
Considering I saw Mr. Gade strolling near the elementary school Monday afternoon and caught him talking to a kid yesterday, it seems the parole board was misguided in allowing this murdering freak his freedom so early.
Another example of the many ways the justice system fails children.
Ignoring the sign, I circle to the back of the house. Layers of darkness remain around the white rustic Victorian home. For a man who’d had dozens of death threats when he moved in, you’d think he would’ve installed some motion detector lights.
A window on the rickety back utility porch is partially open. I could probably crawl through it but I’d rather not risk getting my clothing caught on a stray nail. My blonde hair’s slicked into a neat bun, tucked up under my tight, black knit cap. The slick black jacket I’m wearing is brand-new and zipped to my chin. My tight black pants are also brand-new. I wanted to avoid leaving any evidence after tonight’s visit. Nothing from my home to be accidentally left behind and tied to me. The small black backpack slung tight to my shoulders and stuffed with supplies has never even been inside my home.
Still, I’ll probably make a mistake. But it’s a risk I’ve accepted.
For Hoyt. Little Hoyt who never got to grow up, to finish school, decide if he wanted to leave town or stay. A child who didn’t receive justice. Not as far as I’m concerned.
Stop. Don’t think about him now.
Let’s get this done.
Slowly, I curl my fingers around the small metal handle on the screen door. A low screech echoes as I turn, turn, turn the ancient knob.
I stop. Wait. Cock my head and listen.
The sound probably didn’t carry as far as I think it did. I tug and the door lurches open with a weary, metallic groan.
Another pause and listen.
I open the door just wide enough to slip through and onto the enclosed porch. It’s so dark, I can barely see in front of my nose as I step onto the bouncy wooden floor. I don’t dare take out my mini flashlight, though. Not yet.
A faint shine ahead of me must be the glass window on the door leading into the house. Beyond that a faint, blueish flicker.
Fear crackles through my stomach.
Mr. Gade must be awake.
There’s still time to leave. Go home. Forget this madness.
I curl my fingers around the brass knob and twist.
It doesn’t move.
I crouch down to inspect the knob. It’s a simple, single keyed lock. Same as you can buy at any hardware store. I pull out the master key I’d bought for this occasion. It’s supposed to work on a variety of simple household door locks.