Lessons in Love

Chapter 50: Image of Death

POV: Rick Wallis

I sat on a stool outside the holding cells in the basement of the packhouse. I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well in three days. I kept nodding off and, at one point, banged my head on the wall behind me accidentally. I was irritable, to say the least. I was certain that I would take Ben’s advice as soon as we had George in custody. I sat there, fantasizing about a hot shower and a long sleep.

Around 4:30 in the morning, Andrew and Tyler came down into the basement to collect Shelby.

“You been down here all night?” Andrew asked, giving me a once over. I must have looked at bad as I felt.

“Yeah,” I said, scrubbing my face with hands, and feeling stubble. I got up and started unlocking the door. “We really appreciate this.”

“It’s the least we can do.” Tyler said, and I heard a sadness in his voice that brought my head around. He looked at me and shook his head. “I can’t apologize enough for the way I’ve acted.”

“Ben understands,” I reassured him. “He knows what George can be like. What he can do. You two are a bit alike, you know?” I smiled.

“Really?” A flattered expression crossed Tyler’s face.

“You both talk too much when there’s work to be done.” I winked at him. Andrew tried to stifle a laugh but failed, and Tyler gave him a jovial punch in the arm.

“Maybe I should give him a call later this week. Update him on the search.” Tyler said nervously.

“He’d appreciate that.” I nodded and turned my attention back to the door. “Time to go, Shelby.” I said.

The large man stood up and came out of the cell. “Thank you.” He said, looking at the three of us.

“Thank you,” I extended my hand to him. He shook it firmly. “And sorry about the … uh …” I pointed at the bandage still on the side of his head.

“Nothing that won’t heal.” He smiled at me with a shrug. We led him out to an SUV, and the three of them left. I let out a sigh and looked at my watch. It was only five, leaving me time for a shower and a short nap. We’d want to get to George before school started so Henry could fill in for Claire. No way Claire would be healed up enough to teach.

As much as I wanted to nap, I was worried that if I went back to my suite, I would absolutely fall asleep and miss the big arrest. I had to be there when George was put in cuffs. It felt like all of Ben’s and Claire’s suffering was finally coming to an end. I wanted to be there when Ben did it. I wanted to see the look on Ben’s face when his father got locked in a cell, chained in silver.

I bypassed my suite and went up to my office. I figured I could sit at my desk and watch something on my laptop for an hour or so. The bathroom in my office had a shower, and I generally kept a change of clothes there in case I needed it. I flopped down in my chair and heard something light hit the floor.

I looked around me but saw nothing. I got up and looked around the desk, but there was nothing there either. I was tired, I thought. It had probably been my imagination. I was about to turn around when I saw something on the floor near the door. I walked over and saw a face-down photo on the ground. I surveyed the door and saw the piece of tape that had been holding it up. I bent down and grabbed the photo.

My heart stopped when I turned it over. It was the leg of a wolf, bloodied, ripped off its owner in the heat of battle. It was Mike’s leg, my mind registered. The floor the leg lay on in the photo was clearly the gym. My hand shook as I stared at it. I gave my head a shake and growled as I crumpled up the image, marched to my desk, and threw the wadded-up image in the bin next to it.

I was still shaking. The image now in my brain, roaming around. I focused on the fact that someone had put that image in here. There were few people with access to my office. Ben would never do something like that. We hadn’t given Sam keys yet I rationalized, not that Sam was a suspect either. Marcus had a key, which meant George had one.

George had been at the pub all night. We’d kept tabs on him. Shelby, I wondered. He had come to Ben’s office. He could have been in mine before. I didn’t like Shelby as a suspect. He had rolled on George. If Shelby had been the one to put the photo up, then I believed he would have told us. Then who? I growled angrily, still fighting the image of the dismembered leg.

I closed my eyes tightly, maintaining that growl in hopes I would force the image out of my head. Closing my eyes just made the image more vivid. I started to see the way the leg had come off Mike’s body. I opened my eyes, yelling at the empty room, and swiped the folders on the edge of my desk onto the floor.

The contents of the folders scattered and tumbled across the carpet. The folders, I suddenly realized, weren’t mine. I dropped to my knees, staring at the photos that had spilled out. A deep pool of blood congealing, the face of a wolf with his eyeball hanging from the socket, Mike’s other leg, John’s neck slashed open, Crista’s dead eyes. My stomach heaved, and I dove for the garbage can.

I threw up hugging the waste bin and praying that when I looked back at the floor, the photos would be gone. Not that it mattered. The images were burned into my brain, dancing and floating, coming to life inside my head. I wretched over the garbage pail again, but nothing came out. My eyes water from the pain of it. The smell of my own vomit was thick and made me dizzy.

I needed to kill the taste in my mouth. I clamored to my feet and reached for a bottle of the bar cart in the corner. I didn’t see which bottle I grabbed; I didn’t care. I opened it and downed a massive gulp. The pictures were still on the floor as I turned to face the room, and I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, still clutching the bottle I’d grabbed. I couldn’t taste or smell the vomit anymore; that was a win. I put the bottle down on the vanity next to the sink. The bottle made a loud, echoing type clatter when it hit the marble because my hand was shaking violently.

I was panting, shaking, and sweating as I pressed my back into the door like I was barricading it against the photos imminent attack. The photos were attacking, but they were here in the room with me, in my mind. I could hear John’s voice, his growl, his scream when his mate died, and worst of all, the gurgling noise he made when his throat was slashed open.

Take a shower, a voice somewhere in my head begged. Shower and calm down. I slowly relinquished my hold on the door and turned on the shower. My chest hurt, and I felt lightheaded. Air seemed in short supply, especially with the steam rising from the open shower stall. I pulled my shirt off over my head and gripped the vanity, looking myself in the eye through the mirror.

“Stop it,” I said to me myself. My voice sounded foreign to me, like it wasn’t my own. I closed my eyes and hung my head forward off my shoulders. I saw the images come together behind my eyelids into a movie, replaying John and Crista’s deaths over and over. I opened my eyes and saw my own face in the mirror. I knew I shouldn’t take one of the sleeping pills I’d been provided by Dr. Wilder, if I did, I wouldn’t wake up in time to help Ben. If I did, though, I would fall into a dreamless sleep and not have to be afraid for a few hours.

I gave my head a shake. I can’t do that him. I grabbed the bottle instead and downed more of the alcohol. It burned my throat and my empty stomach, leeching its way into my system. I felt a dizziness I shouldn’t have from the alcohol and looked down at the bottle I was drinking from. It was whiskey. George’s whiskey. My vision blurred, and I threw the bottle at the wall, slightly losing my balance as I did. I fell forward, and everything went blissfully black.