Page 13 of Madness Blooms
The bar primarily attracts older men who sit quietly at the counter, alternating their gaze between their cheap booze of choice and the TV broadcasting a sports game. Bunny briefly glances at the jukebox in the corner, likely questioning its functionality. We walk past the dingy pool table and make our way toward the bartender.
“Have any preference?” I ask, squeezing Bunny’s hand.
I swear her face hasn’t cooled since the theater.
“Nothing too hard,” she replies, before the phrasing of her words prompts her to gnaw her lip. “Nothing too strong, I mean. Something smooth or fruity sounds good.”
I chuckle to put her at ease, as her trust in me must remain. “Just expect nothing too fancy in this place. Better to stick to the basics, hm?”
The bartender finishes cleaning a glass and finally acknowledges us. “What’ll you have?”
“A glass of Irish cream for the lady,” I say, tilting my head down closer to Bunny for confirmation. “That okay?” She nods, and I add, “And a glass of spiced rum for me.”
The bartender gets our drinks ready while Bunny looks on with fascination. Once he hands us the glasses, I gesture toward the empty booths, and we slide into one of them. Initially, the dim lighting had concealed their subpar condition. But now, under the hanging lamps, the peeling vinyl is visible.
Bunny takes a cautious sip of her whiskey. “Do you make this a habit?” she asks. I raise my brow, and she continues, “Spending money on girls you hardly know? And …servicingthem.”
“Not always,” I begin, leaning forward as I dial up the charm. “But when they’re as gorgeous as you are, I make an exception.”
That shuts her up. She busies herself with her drink, the wheels turning in her pretty little head as she desperately tries to come up with a response.How smooth, I self-congratulated. I merely sip my alcohol while Bunny anxiously tosses it down like a seasoned pro. I suppose I should tell her to turn it down a notch, but the easier she is to mold to my liking, the better.
And maybe once her serial rapist boss is out of the picture, she’ll stop being so jumpy all the damn time.
Bunny guzzles down the contents of the tumbler and orders another. I remain silent, knowing that the more she drinks, the more likely she is to reveal more information. Which is never a bad thing.
“How long has he been harassing you?” I ask, wanting to pryjusta bit—enough to come off as a concerned boyfriend. Or whatever she wants me to be.
Bunny doesn’t need any clarification about who I’m referring to. “George is a fucking dick.” She washes down her anger with more whiskey, her nostrils flaring. “He gawks at me like I’m nothing but a piece of ass. He treats me like I’m disposable, a toy for him to use. Probably expects me to let him fuck me to keep my job, too.”
As she stews in her bitterness, I prod further. “I overheard him mention someone named Diane. Who is that?”
“My mother,” she practically spits. “Pretty sure she’s opened her legs for him before, too. But if I don’t do it voluntarily, I’m afraid …” She trails off and finishes another glass.
From my research, George Tyler has a history of using his position of power to sexually exploit his female employees, especially the younger and more attractive ones. He is nothing but scum and deserves to be crushed like trash in a compactor.
Small towns have no shortage of filth.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” I say, taking her hands in mine and giving them a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything I can do …”
She initially flinches at my touch, but eventually relaxes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”No, you won’t.“Can we go to the bank? I still need to cash my check.”
I leave my rum unfinished, and she doesn’t notice; I need to stay sober for what I’m planning on doing. After taking care of the bill, I lead her to the door. “Let’s go.”
I lean back in my seat and take a sip of my coffee.
After stopping at the bank and dropping off Bunny at her house, I grabbed some much-needed caffeine at Mackay’s, swapped out my attire to all-black, and drove to George Tyler’s residence. I parked the car in a nearby lot to keep it hidden and waited for him to return home.
I wouldn’t typically do a cleanse so soon after another.
But tonight is a special exception.
It’s evening, so the bastard should show up any time now. George had already been a target of mine for a while, so bumping his name up my list and ending his worthless life sooner would do the citizens of Ashburn a favor. As expected, his shitty beater comes thumping down the street, spitting out fumes that stink up the entire neighborhood. He pulls into his driveway, parks, and staggers out of the vehicle.
It’s only 9 PM, and he’s already wasted. Typical. George likes to close shop early on Saturdays—another excuse to cut pay for his employees—and get blitzed over at Bottle Grounds. He stumbles onto the porch, fumbles with his keys, and nearly falls face-first into his house. Then I wait. And observe.
He appears in view through the kitchen window, talking animatedly but sluggishly. His expression is pinched like he got a whiff of his probably unwashed taint. He opens the fridge, gets some foul abomination in the form of leftovers, and shoves them in the microwave. I skim my notes to make sure the family living nearby is still on vacation. The only other resident in the area is an elderly person with bad hearing.
George goes to the living room and sits in a recliner, stuffing his face with far too many calories. His TV blares and lights up the room like a beacon. I continue waiting, making sure he’s fully dozed off. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and put away my binoculars in the glovebox. Snatching my duffle bag from the passenger seat, I scan the street to make sure it’s deserted and exit the car.