CHAPTER 67
He’s what you might call a pattern—a man whose name shows up too often in police reports and never on a sentencing sheet. Always accused. Never convicted. Charges vanish like spilled ink. Victims back out. Files go quiet.
But I remember him.
Last year, he was picked up on suspicion of drugging a woman with a homemade sedative. She came to early. Managed to get out. He claimed it was a misunderstanding.
It always is.
Judge Maxwell enters, begins hearings and he’s first up.
Nathaniel steps up to the defense table now, clean-shaven, sharply dressed, hands folded like he’s a polite citizen with a parking ticket. But I’ve seen what he leaves behind.
Lewis is still talking to herself, trying to organize her thoughts.
And I... start organizing something else.
Iwonder what it would take.
To stop someone like him.
Permanently.
Not in the heat of panic.
Not in a blur of blood and screaming and survival.
But a plan. A process. A choice.
What if I did that?
What if I chose someone like him—on purpose?
Not a monster in the moment. A monster by design.
I could follow him and learn his habits. The places he feels safest. His patterns. His tells.
Wait until he’s alone.
Lure him with a gentle conversation. A smile. A drink. With a little something extra, just enough to make him woozy.
I could take him somewhere quiet.
Empty.
Echoes don’t carry in certain rooms—not if you choose carefully. Vacant construction homes. A rental listing no one’s shown in weeks.
This time, I’d be prepared.
Not running. Not flailing in the dark. Not fighting for myself.
This would be for them: his victims.
I’d bring gloves. A drop cloth. Industrial-strength bleach in a labeled bottle.
Of course I’d have mom’s chef’s knife. It’s practically a family heirloom now. But other tools would be better for Nathaniel.
A scalpel, maybe.
A bone saw could be too messy. Too loud.
But a pair of dental forceps?
Now that has precision. Purpose.
I’d sterilize everything first. Line it up. Tools neatly arranged on a folding table. Labeled, maybe. In order. There’s something calming about that.
And maybe this time I wouldn’t rush.
Nathaniel Mercer doesn’t deserve a clean death like a a single cut to the throat or the dignity of a fast ending.
He deserves balance.
His victims always reported the same detail.
The bruising. The sedation.
And the bite marks.
Deep. Scarring. As if he wanted to leave his signature carved into them.
So, I’d take his teeth.
One by one.
I imagine him strapped to the chair—groggy, blinking, confusion blooming behind his eyes like a bruise. He tries to speak, but I hush him. Smile, even.
“I’m going to help you understand,” I’d whisper.
The forceps are heavy in my hand but balanced, like they were made for this.
The first tooth takes effort.
Pressure. Rocking. A crack of enamel.
Blood wells up around the root, coppery and warm.
He chokes on it, and I tilt his head gently, so he doesn’t aspirate. I’m not finished yet.
It’s not about rage. This is deliberate. Centered.
The second tooth comes easier.
The third easier still.
There’s a rhythm to it.
Left side. Right side.
Top row. Bottom.
Even numbers. Clean extractions.
With each one, his screams fade into gargled sobs.
His eyes plead.
But I’m not cruel. I'm thorough.
“This is for the girls you marked,” I’d say. “This is so you never do it again.”
His mouth is a ruined red garden now.
Gaping and quiet.
He’d start to shake. Eyes wide as blood starts to fill his mouth now, drowning him. No sense in keeping him with me anymore.
But something seems incomplete. Unfinished and it’s bothering me. The slice across the neck.
It’s crucial now.
I wonder what would come first. If he would drown on his blood or bleed to death. Let’s find out.
I’d whisper, the steel of my blade kissing the pulse at his neck. “This is for the girl who woke up too soon.”
And then… peace.
The final cut.
Not rushed.
Not angry.
Just the soft slide of metal across his throat.
Not because he deserved it.
But because I’m done.
“Paty.”
A sharp elbow to my ribs. Lewis, panicked. “The judge is questioning me. Help?”
I blink.
The courtroom reassembles itself slowly, like pieces of glass shifting back into a window.
Mercer’s still seated at the defense table. Still composed. Still playing the role.
But I realize—I’ve been staring at him.
Hard.
Unblinking.
Long enough that it’s no longer subtle.
And he’s looking right back at me.
Not confused. Not offended.
Amused.
Like he knows.
Like he saw everything I just imagined.