Chapter 11: Sebastian - Hunter or Hunted

Gwen gripped the counter and lifted her foot. Posed like a flamingo, a stream of crimson leaked from her heel. Unsteady, mumbling to herself, she pinched the piece of glass and tossed it to the ground.

I started to say, “Are you⁠—”

Just as she lost her balance.

She dropped her foot back to the ground.

“Son of a goddamn mother f⁠—”

“Okay, be still.” I grabbed the chair from the dinette, mindful of my steps. Only socks covered my feet. Setting the chair down beside her, I gestured for her to sit. “Let me see.”

Face scrunched up in some combination of anger, annoyance, and embarrassment, struggling to stabilize herself with a shard of glass in her foot, she plopped into the chair.

Aside from some muttered curses, she said nothing.

I squatted in front of her. The first cut, the one that made her scream, came from a prick the size of a pinhead. It glinted in the light that came in from the windows, informing me there was still a piece of glass inside of her skin.

The one that made her cuss? A large shard, roughly the size of a quarter, still protruded from the arch of her foot. I gripped it between my thumb and forefinger and pulled.

Gwen tensed, grunting. “Little warning would’ve been nice.”

“What did you think I was down here for?” Blood oozed from the wound. I grabbed the dish towel that hung off the oven handle and pressed it to her foot. “Hold this here for a second.”

She did. “If you grab me my slippers, I can⁠—”

“Can’t you just let me help you?” I straightened. “I know you can do everything for yourself, but I want to. I want to help you.”

Her expression softened, eyes glittering. “Won’t help me kill a man, though.”

Why couldn’t she let a soft moment breathe?

I rolled my eyes, mindful of my steps as I headed for the bathroom. “Where’s the first-aid kit?”

“Under the sink,” she called. “Tweezers are in the medicine cabinet. First shelf from the bottom.”

The yellowish fluorescent light hummed when I flicked the switch. The fan sputtered on. Crouching before the mahogany vanity, I tossed open the doors. Behind a few rolls of toilet paper and a box of tampons, I caught a glimpse of the red canvas bag. I grabbed it, then stood for the medicine cabinet. It took some rummaging through makeup sponges and eyeshadow packages, but there they were. A silver pair of tweezers.

Supplies in hand, I returned to the kitchen and laid them on the table. “Where’s your broom?”

“Over there.” She gestured to the far side of the fridge.

A tall cabinet stood beside it. As I tugged open the door, finding a broom and the mop on the other side, the sound of a zipper caught my attention.

There she sat, unzipping the first-aid kit.

Shoulders sinking with a deep breath, I grabbed the broom. Gwen had one foot propped on the bar beneath the seat—avoiding the glass on the ground—and her other ankle propped up on top of her knee. As I swept up the glass beneath her, she pulled the rag away. Her breath hitched, and she pushed it back into the wound.

I snorted.

She looked up. A hint of green enveloped her pale cheeks. “What?”

“You don’t like blood.”

She glared. “Nobody likes blood.”

Now that the glass was at least pushed away from the floor around her, I kneeled again, laughing. “Give me that first-aid kit.”

She slid it across the table. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m laughing at the irony.”

A small bottle of peroxide lay inside the bag. I twisted off the lid, tugged the rag away, and poured it onto her wound. She gasped at the pain. I went on inspecting it, but the blood kept rushing. I couldn’t tell how deep it went. The beige rag sported a red circle, but nothing I’d consider life-threatening.

“You might need stitches,” I said, “but you’re drunk, and that thins the blood, so it could be fine.”

I tore open one of the gauze pads and folded it in half. Gwen winced as I pressed it into the wound. The crimson seeped through rapidly. I patted it with another, then applied pressure. Using my teeth, I ripped some medical tape and sealed the gauze pads in place.

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to elevate it,” I said.

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to get the glass out of my other foot first.” Her voice was softer, slower.

I looked up, and my jaw dropped. Her face was even paler than it had been. The greenish hue intensified.

I laughed. “How do you expect to kill a man if a little bit of blood gets you this sick, Gwen?”

She pinched her eyes shut and looked away. “I wasn’t going to do it bloody.”

“How did you handle the blood when you killed David?” I lowered her foot to the floor and lifted the other. “You stabbed him—I don’t even know—half a dozen times? The blood didn’t bother you then.”

“It was the worst part,” she muttered, still avoiding looking down. “The mess. Cleaning it up. And loading him into the trunk. That was hard too.”

Focused on the piece of glass wedged in the crimson pinprick, I grabbed the tweezers from the table. “Then why do you want to do it again?”

“Why did you get rid of David’s body?” she asked. “It’s not a want, Sebastian. I didn’t want to deal with digging that piece of glass out of my foot, but if you weren’t here, if you weren’t so insistent, I would do it. Because it needs d—ow!”

I plucked the piece of glass, no bigger than a splinter, from her foot. Carefully laying it on the dish towel, I said, “Sorry.”

Her grunt told me she didn’t believe that.

“But you hate blood.” I poured some rubbing alcohol over the cut. She winced. Fanning it with my hand, I dug around for the antibiotic cream and a Band-Aid. By the time I found them, the alcohol had evaporated. “So how were you planning on doing it again?”

“I haven’t planned it,” she said. Head still turned the other way, words slow and slurred, she let out a shaking breath. “That’s what I came to you for. But you don’t want to help, so don’t worry about it.”

“‘Don’t worry about it,’” I said under my breath in a mocking falsetto. Standing, I grabbed the plate of chicken off the counter and set it in front of her. “I’m always gonna worry about you. And right now, I’m worried that you’re going to pass out. You’ve barely eaten anything in days. Finish your chicken.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She took the chicken, and she bit into it.

Laughing, I grabbed the broom and started sweeping. “If you’re going to do it, you need a plan, don’t you?”

“Why do you care?” she managed between chews. “I thought this was—in your words—batshit crazy. You didn’t want to be involved.”

No, I didn’t. Not really.

After I killed Jason, I promised myself I would never do it again. Something had died with me that day. Taking a life meant losing a part of yourself. Just like part of me died every time I had to euthanize a pet.

More of me died when I euthanized a pet than when I’d killed Jason, honestly.

But Gwen was going to do this. She hadn’t spouted it one day in a moment of fury. She had thought, had contemplated, and she’d decided. She was going to kill Evan.

And while I wouldn’t jump up and down about it, I wanted her to get away with it.

“Because I care about you,” I said. “And the death penalty is on the table in Montana.”

All the shards now piled together next to the sink, I grabbed some paper towels from the counter and tossed them on top. Careful not to cut myself, I bound them together and tossed them into the can. “If you’re going to do it, I don’t want you to go to jail for it. So if you can’t handle the blood, how are you going to do it?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure Evan is a big guy.” She wiped the corner of her mouth, but her face was still that sickly shade of green. “So I guess I’d⁠—”

Her shoulders lurched.

She pressed a hand over her lips.

At lightning speed, too quickly for me to help her, she stood. Limping, grasping hold of the counter, the table, then the wall, she ran to the bathroom.

The door clunked shut behind her. Sounds that reminded me of Jurassic Park roared on the other side of it.

The apple juice and the glass on the floor could wait.

I headed down the hall and pulled Gwen’s bedroom door shut. Honey had run in there a while ago, so I had to assume that’s where she was now. Locking her in kept her from slicing a paw in the kitchen.

Spinning the knob on the bathroom door, I pushed it open. The smell had me swallowing gags of my own. Doubted I would ever enjoy a cup of spiked cocoa again. Doubted Gwen would either.

Gwen’s head crouched low in the bowl. She clutched the sides of the tank and coughed out, “Don’t come in here.”

“Too late.” I kneeled beside her, bundling the mess of curls behind her head. “Pretty sure it’s my job to hold your hair back.”

But I wasn’t here out of obligation. She’d already injured both of her feet. In her drunken stupor, she would make the bleeding worse when she stood. And I wanted to keep an eye on her complexion. If her color didn’t come back soon, she would need fluids.

I had some in my truck. Always carried the basics in case I needed them at the ranch. Obviously, they were for animals. Contrary to popular belief, though, humans were animals too. We liked to pretend we weren’t, but saline worked on us the same way it did on them.

Maybe that was why, on a moral level, I saw no fault in Gwen’s logic. To me, raising cattle for beef was a more trivial ideological debate than killing an abuser.

The consequences. That’s why I hadn’t jumped on the Kill-Evan train.

She made a sound, almost like she was trying to say something, but hurled again.

Holding her hair back with one hand, I soothed the other up and down her spine. “Maybe the chicken was a bad idea.”

She snorted, or scoffed, or laughed. I couldn’t tell. It ended in another eruption of chunky liquid into the toilet.

I kept rubbing her back, holding her hair, and she kept puking.

After a while, she wadded together some toilet paper and wiped it across her lips. Hunched over the bowl, she breathed hard and fast. “I’m sorry.”

Sounded more sober than she had all day.

“Don’t be.”

Silence set in again. She still held the tank of the toilet. She still crouched over. Her breathing slowed, and the sweat gathering at the base of her neck began to dry.

After a while, I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you think you’re ready to elevate that foot?”

“Might want to keep a trash can nearby.” She straightened, leaned back, and turned her head toward the ceiling. Eyes closed, the breeze of the fan overhead fluttered the damp curls around her cheeks. “After I brush my teeth.”

I stood, grabbed the toothbrush from the cup on the sink, ran it under the water, then squeezed some toothpaste from the medicine cabinet onto it. Squatting, I handed it to her. “Probably best you don’t stand on that foot.”

Her eyes did that glittering thing again. It didn’t last, neither did the hint of a smile. But it was better than nothing.

She brushed, spat in the toilet, and laid the toothbrush on the edge of the counter.

I stretched out my hand, she took it, and once she was on her feet, she leaned against me. Each step we took was measured, cautious. She stayed on the heel of one foot, and the tips of her toes with the other. She didn’t cuss under her breath or quip with sarcasm. Just leaned against me and let me walk her to her bed.

When we made it there, I pulled back the comforter and sheet. As she lay down, I glanced back at the door, then along the hardwoods. Despite the many times I informed all of my patients not to let their dogs jump on the bed, especially a senior pup with arthritis who was more likely to tear a ligament, that was where I expected Honey to be. She wasn’t, though. Wasn’t on the floor either.

I craned onto the tips of my toes to look on the other side of the bed. Still no sign of her.

“What are you doing?” Gwen asked, pulling the blankets over her sweat-dampened skin.

“Looking for Honey,” I said. “I don’t want her going out to the kitchen and stepping on the glass.”

Rolling onto her side, Gwen cuddled the blankets close to her face. “She’s under the bed.”

“Oh.” I crouched down, and sure enough, there she lay. Tucked deep in the back, the early signs of cataracts glinted gray across her dark brown eyes. “Does she always go down there?”

“When she’s scared.” Gwen yawned. “She thought we were fighting. She hides when she hears fighting.”

Chest tight, my eyes burned.

Why had I never thought about that? Honey was eight years old. Gwen had told me she was her only owner. That meant that Honey had lived through what Gwen had lived through.

Gwen carried her baggage in a neat sack over her shoulders. A padlock held the flap of it shut. Today, an article or two spilled, but from only a corner. A glimpse of the mound she kept so carefully locked away.

Honey, it had always seemed, was unfazed by their past. Maybe I just hadn’t paid enough attention.

I kneeled again, holding back the blanket for a better view. “It’s okay, Honey. We’re not fighting. Come here.”

She stayed put.

“She’ll come out once we quiet down,” Gwen said, the same sadness and grief that I heard during her speech this afternoon tinging her voice now. “You don’t have to worry about the glass either. I’ll get it later. Just shut the door.”

Was that her way of telling me to walk through it? To shut it behind me?

“Alright,” I said. “But unless Simone or Rhiannon or someone else comes to keep an eye on you, I’m not leaving.”

Eyes heavy, chafing skin around them like blush, she shook her head. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Good.” I smiled and climbed into the bed beside her.

But the smile fell as quick as it came.

So many feelings, so much to process, in a few hours. A few days. Too much.

Lying beside her should’ve brought me waves of comfort. Happiness and joy.

It would’ve, if she felt any of those today.

But maybe she did, because when I curled an arm around her waist, when I stroked the hair from her sweat-dampened cheek, when she cuddled closer, her breath slowed. Her posture soothed. Her eyes closed.

I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t know what I thought of everything we’d discussed earlier. I didn’t know where I stood, or where we went from here, but I knew I didn’t want to leave this spot.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Gwen to fall asleep. As soon as her eyes shut, her breathing slowed, and she drifted away. A glance at the side table showed it was only 5 o’clock.

Hopefully, she’d sleep until nine the next morning. By the looks of it, she needed to catch up.

I tried to scroll for a while, but everything she’d said, all the pain in her voice, the hint of accusation, turned wild in my mind. Worse yet, was the realization that she felt safe enough to share all those opinions with me.

So much of her argument stemmed from men taking women’s voices. Their power.

But she excluded me from the group. While still pointing out my hypocrisies.

There was beauty in that realization. That she felt safe enough to argue with me. To fight with me. To call me a hypocrite.

I was.

When I gave Rhiannon the money for the ranch, in my mind, I severed my tie to the generations of men in my family who'd used their power to subjugate others. In my mind, that was enough. I had done more to help society, to help women, than 99% of the world.

But had I really?

No. I could’ve taken that money, could’ve been a part of the ultra-wealthy ruling class. But the choice to give it away was more a matter of getting rid of it.

I resented that power. It disgusted me. It’d harmed me. It’d tortured my mom, my sister, my younger self.

I got rid of it for the same reason others would’ve chosen to keep it. Selfishness.

The same reason I held onto the percentage of it. If I needed to run, I could. If I decided tomorrow that I wanted to buy a beach house in the tropics and never work again, I could.

On a moral level, I agreed with Gwen. Everything she said. Every point she made.

If I could kill Evan myself, just to ease her mind, I would. Because I couldn’t give a shit less about that bastard. He’d groomed a child, abused her, and probably killed her. The world would be better off without him, and watching his blood spill wouldn’t be much different than cleanup after surgery at work.

But Gwen didn’t have the protections I did. She didn’t have a plan.

Before, when we’d argued the first time, Gwen said I made her out to be emotional and illogical. Which she was. But I had been too. If I hadn’t been so lucky, if the cards hadn’t fallen just right, I would’ve gone to jail for killing Jason. Might have gotten the lethal injection for it.

That’s why planning was important.

Also why I was meeting with Emily next week. The deal wasn’t sealed yet, but it looked promising. I was going to buy the damn crematorium and get rid of the two bodies I already had on my property.

Maybe then Gwen and I could have a realistic conversation about Evan.

My phone vibrated on my chest, dragging me out of my spiral. Lizzie’s picture lit up the screen.

On my left, Gwen’s slow, rhythmic breaths rose and collapsed her chest. She kept the blankets bundled close to her face, now her usual peachy shade of cream.

I slithered out from beneath the blankets. She stirred, but stayed asleep.

As I walked around the bed, nearly at the door, I swiped the green bar. Quietly, I said, “Hey, kid.”

“Hey,” Lizzie answered. “How’s Gwen doing?”

I glanced at her, still out cold, as I spun the handle and walked from her bedroom. “She’ll be alright. What are you up to? How’s everything going down in town?”

“About the same as it always is on Christmas Eve,” she said. “Me and Aubrey just had dinner in the cafeteria. We’re gonna head to the rec center now. Rhiannon’s playing Polar Express this year.”

“That’s a good one.” In the kitchen now, I grabbed the broom, still perched against the counter, and started sweeping. I had the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder. “Are you alright? I feel bad. This is the first Christmas Eve we’re not together.”

“The second, actually. Maybe the third? Last time, you had an emergency surgery come in,” she said. “But it’s fine, Seabass. I’m not a little kid anymore. It’s not like you need to rush to get the presents under the tree. I know Santa’s not real.”

I chuckled, squinting for any glass that glinted on the floor. “Still. I feel bad.”

“Don’t.” She laughed. “I’m gonna sleep at Rhiannon’s tonight. I think we did that a couple times when I was little too. She’s looking forward to it, I’m looking forward to it. Gwen needed you more than I did today. Are you sure she’s okay?”

“Probably going to be pretty embarrassed tomorrow.” Almost certain I had gotten all the glass, I returned the broom to the tall cabinet and took out the bucket and mop. Filling it in the sink, I leaned against the counter. “But as okay as she can be. She really cared about Delilah.”

“Yeah.” Lizzie spoke that slowly, almost as a sigh. “The whole thing sucks. Especially right before the holiday, you know? That’s why I kind of agree with Gwen. I couldn’t see Delilah doing this.”

I flicked off the water and pinched my eyes shut. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

Another sigh echoed through the speaker. Lizzie’s tone came more cheerful when she continued. “Anyway. Just wanted to check in. But don’t feel bad, okay? I’m fine. Probably fine enough to live on my own, get my license, fly to Europe. Practically grown.”

Laughing, I lifted the bucket from the sink. “Boarding school is an option. But it might require you to work on your obstinacy with authority.”

“Good point. I guess I’ll stick it out a few more years.” I could almost hear her smile. “I really am okay though. I’m old enough now. You don’t have to worry about me every moment of every day anymore.”

She’d said that more and more lately.

Mine and Lizzie’s relationship was an odd combination of child and caregiver. She didn’t remember any parents before me, but I’d never felt like a parent to her. Not an uncle either, really. Then again, I’d never really had parents so I had nothing to compare my role. And Rhiannon was the closest thing I had to an aunt.

I thought of Lizzie almost like a little sister. One I’d fight, kill, and die for, sure. She’d always called me Seabass, never Uncle Sebastian.

As the adult, my job entailed getting her fed, to and from school, and teaching her some basic morality. But even when she was little, I’d tried to keep the leash long. Strict parents made sneaky kids and all that. I didn’t pick and prod over every little issue. The result turned her into a sort of equal in my mind. In hers too, I liked to think.

Now that she could navigate the world on her own a bit, she’d practically begged me to get out more. To find myself before I was, in her words, “old—like, forty—with no life.”

I appreciated it. She saw how much of myself I’d given for her, and she didn’t want me to miss out on any more.

Still, loosening that leash any more was easier said than done.

“I’ll always worry, kid.” Even more so after all the revelations I’d had in my argument with Gwen. “But it sounds like you’re trying to get off, so I’ll let you go. If you need me, I’m right up the road.”

“I know,” she said. “Just text me when you’re ready to go home in the morning. Oh, and maybe invite Gwen. You didn’t bring her presents, right? Maybe she can open them while we open ours.”

That was an idea. “Yeah, maybe. But sounds good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

We get off the call and I set the bucket on the ground, blowing out a deep breath, and got to mopping.

Just when I finished up, as I dumped the dirty water into the sink, the little pitter-patter of claws on hardwood sounded. When I turned around, Honey peeked at me from the hallway. Only her face was visible, body still tucked out of view, shaking.

She was scared.

I had stabbed that dog with a needle more than a dozen times, and she had never been afraid of me. Not until now.

Chest tight, I leaned down and extended a hand. “It’s okay. Come here, Honey.”

Nub of a tail between her legs, she took a few small steps forward. Barely out of the hallway, she scooted to the floor and rolled over to show her belly. Contrary to popular belief, not a sign of obedience, but one of appeasement. She wasn’t doing what I said, but telling me, See? I’m not a threat. You don’t have to be mean.

I had been afraid all throughout my childhood. The last thing I ever wanted was for another helpless, defenseless creature to be afraid of me.

Tears burned across my eyes as I lifted the lid on the jar of treats from the counter. With a handful, I sat on the ground.

She came over, nose wiggling.

“Good girl.” I patted her big, pointy ears as she gobbled up the snacks in my hand. “No more yelling, okay? I promise.”

More like herself, she wagged her tail. Probably not because she understood what I said, but because I was sitting on the floor. That meant playtime. She ran to her bin by the couch, came back with a stuffed skunk, and we spent the next few minutes in a rigorous game of tug-of-war. I let her win. She deserved to win.

When we finished, she went to the door and barked. I took her outside and sat on the steps while she did her business.

The cabin stayed quiet while I got Honey her dinner, ate mine, and cleaned up the dishes. When the sun set, I returned to Gwen’s bedroom.

But it wasn’t so quiet.

Gwen lay beneath the blankets, facing me. With them bundled so close to her face, I couldn’t make out her expression nor the words that left her lips, but I had an idea of what they were. She shook her head periodically, breaths closer to moans than language.

She was having a nightmare.

She had been right earlier. I didn’t understand. Not all of it, not every detail, not the ways in which her trauma affected her still to this day.

But I understood the nightmares.

I sat beside her in the bed. Carefully, I reached out for her cheek. Half expected her to jolt at my touch, maybe throw a swing or two.

Instead, her crinkled brows softened, and those groaning words silenced.

When I lay down beside her and tucked an arm around her waist, her expression stayed just as calm, and her lips smoothed to a straight line, clenched teeth finally relaxing.

After everything that had happened, I didn’t know exactly where we stood. I didn’t know what came next. But the boogeyman went away when I held her, and I had no plans of letting go.