After the hair-raising things I’ve learned about Cormac so far, I should be terrified. But no, not even a little. I can handle anything. I’m in control now.
Both of us dressed, and with his hand in mine, we go into the hallway. I think he’s going to bring me back into his son’s room. But he pivots, and we’re standing in front of a double closet that I hadn’t even noticed before.
“This is where we could end,” he says quietly. “Where you could finally walk away.”
Throat dry, it seems unfathomable for me to leave him. Not after everything we’ve been through. Everything he faced to be with me.
Brows furrowed, I say, “Do you have a dead body in there, Cormac?”
“Close,” he says, dead serious.
I feel myself stepping back. “What?”
“Steady, baby.” He uses a key and unlocks the deadbolt on the bottom, then a second one at the top. The door swings open, but there’s a black curtain and a panel fastened to the inside of the door that’s flashing and requires a code, which Cormac enters.
Past the curtain are custom-sized shelves and cubbies. All filled. There are two tactical vests, sleek black cases I’ve seen used to hold guns, and neatly coiled cords. Trauma shears, gloves, holsters, silencers, and a box of matte black N95 masks.
On a shelf that’s level to my chest, there’s a black velvet tray with molded inserts for…
Syringes. Sleek, glass, custom, impossible to mistake. The kind those agents had with them that day they cameto Cormac’s class months ago to provide a briefing.
My stomach drops.
“Cormac…” I go breathless. “Are you?—”
“Wait…” He brings me into the living room to sit me down on a chair. “Yes.” He doesn’t rush or soften the blow. “I’m the Hot-Shot Killer.”
I close my eyes, waiting for something after that. An apology, more confessions.
Nothing comes.
“But…” My voice pops out thinner than I want. “Why?”
“No one else was stopping them. I did.”
That’s it. Cold. No remorse.
I stare at my husband, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the one I thought I knew. “Who were they? The victims.”
“Before they were victims, they were drug dealers.” Cormac paces back and forth. “The FBI didn’t tell you and the other students the whole story. Hot-Shot’svictimswere repeat offenders that their own justice system couldn’t punish properly. They slipped through the cracks. Good lawyers outmaneuvered bad judges. Cases went round and round.”
My stomach twists at how the FBI left out that part. Their failure to prosecute these criminals and call them victims is astonishing. I had no idea they were drug dealers. The Feds seemed more invested in hunting Cormac likehewas the monster.
Never the men he killed.
“Their goals are to get people addicted, to ruin their lives so they can profit from it,” he continues. “I never killed an innocent man. I didn’t profit. Didn’t enjoy it. Okay, a little. Well, I didn’t enjoy taking their life, but I did enjoy walking away from them knowing they’d never hurt anyone again.”
I drag in a breath, something sharp forming in my chest.
“You were getting even,” I say. “For what happened to you. Your addiction.”
“I wish it was something loftier and less selfish,” he says. “But yeah. That’s part of it.”
“Where did you get the drugs?”
“My contact is someone who helped me, but he couldn’t save his own daughter. She overdosed, and he tried to get justice. But the dealer kept slipping through the cracks. He tracked down the guy, gave me a vial, and I killed him. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. But it was too easy, so we did it again. And again.” Cormac shoves a hand through his hair.
“The guy who came to the school,” I whisper.