No one said anything.
What was there to say?
Skye had just seen her father execute twelve men and had heard I was implicated in other deaths. She didn’t know I’d done it all for her. She couldn’t. The guilt might destroy her.
Toni’s eyes told me I was as dead as a deadbeat could be. They shone with the hatred of someone who never wanted to see me again, and I didn’t blame her. I’d gone beyond unforgivable by placing her and Skye in danger. I wanted to tell her I’d also saved them but had the good sense not to open that can of worms. She was furious.
I was shaking and felt sick as the adrenaline died away.
My patron had been paying Frankie Balls to mutilate my victims, and he or she was obviously connected to Freya Persico. Revenge had to be playing a part in this.
Were Walter Glaze, Farah Younis, and Richard Gibson the true victims in this? Or was I? Were they simply the collateral necessary to punish me?
As I drove from Compton north through Los Angeles, I checked my messages. Anna Cacciola had left me three asking me to come in for a police interview. Jim Steadman had phoned me twice and slurred some curses down the line. There were dozens from reporters who wanted to talk to the West Coast Ripper. I had no idea how they’d even gotten my number.
I couldn’t go home, that much was clear. The cops would have the place staked out.
I glanced in the rearview and caught Skye looking at me with nothing but disappointment. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
“Where are we going?” Toni asked.
“Where’s your car?” I responded.
“On the PCH. By the pier,” she replied.
“I’ll take you there,” I told her.
She snorted her derision.
“You’ve done some fucked-up things,” she said a few minutes later as we were crawling along with the westbound rush-hour traffic on the 105. “But this is beyond.”
“Toni…,” I tried.
“Don’t you sit there with literal blood on your hands and try to give me any excuses,” she said, her tone as sharp as any knife. “You complete fuckup.”
I glanced down at the wheel and saw she was right. Little drops of blood were spattered on my hands.
“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done, Peyton. By a long shot,” Toni said.
I didn’t respond. What could I say?
I drove them out to the Pacific Coast Highway, and the sun dropped below the horizon as we headed north, part of an unbroken stream of red lights. It was night by the time we reached Malibu Pier, and, after following her directions, I parked behind Toni’s gray Honda Civic.
“Get out of town for a while,” I suggested. “Stay away until I call you to let you know it’s safe. Does Jack have family nearby?”
“Never call me again,” Toni said, taking Skye and hurrying from the car.
I won’t ever forget the look in Skye’s eyes. I saw my reflection in them, and I was a monster.
Toni fumbled with her keys but eventually got them into the Civic, and I watched them drive away, wondering if I’d ever see my kid again.