Page 89 of Brutal
Then whatever was supposed to happen that night was meant for someone else.
And if Halstead wasn’t supposed to be there…
Then who was?
I look at my notes again. At Samson’s name. At the timeline. And something colder settles in.
Because now I’m not just asking who killed him. I’m asking what was supposed to happen that night. And why it didn’t go that way.
My body still hasn’t fully calmed. I can still feel him. Still feel his lips on my flesh, on my most intimate parts.
I ignore it. Or try to, anyway. It’s not relevant or useful.
Because he didn’t stop me.
He warned me.
He pushed.
But he never shut it down.
Not when I asked.
Not when I pushed.
Not even after?—
I stop that thought before it finishes.
It doesn’t matter why. Only that he didn’t. Which means one of two things.
He can’t. Or he won’t.
“Which one are you?” I whisper.
Then it dawns on me that I don’t need an answer. At least not yet.
Samson Vexley is a part of this, but he’s not the whole.
And if I follow him—really follow him—he will lead me somewhere bigger.
Good.
That’s exactly where I’m going.
23
SAMSON
I move down the hall deliberately, the way I’ve been trained to move since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be watched.
Because I am being watched. Always. I learned that a long time ago. Doesn’t mean I’ll do what I’m supposed to or what I’ve been told to, but I’m still being watched.
It’s brisk outside, and I welcome it. I need something that doesn’t feel like her because I can still feel her everywhere. On my hands. On my mouth. In the space between my ribs where things don’t usually land.
That’s the problem.
Not what happened. Hell, I fuck women all the time. That’s nothing new.
