Bloodhound's hand closes around Creedy's throat. Not squeezing. Holding. The way you'd hold a dog by the scruff when it bares its teeth.
"Nobody asked you shit." Bloodhound's voice is gravel dragged across concrete. "Dennis Halstead is in a cage where he belongs. And you used his name to terrorize two women who spent years putting their lives back together."
He releases Creedy's throat. Creedy coughs, sucks air, his eyes watering.
I stand, walk to the counter, and open the kitchen drawer.
Inside are utensils, a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a roll of duct tape.
I take the pliers and the tape.
Creedy watches me walk with the pliers in one grip and the tape in the other.
His nostrils flare.
The muscles in his forearms strain against the zip ties hard enough for the plastic to creak, and the cockiness drains from his expression like dirty water down a sink.
"You grabbed her mother's arm with your right hand." I sit down again. Open the pliers. "That's what she told me. Your right hand."
His right hand is zip-tied to the chair arm.
The fingers are thick, calloused, the hands of a man who's used them as weapons for decades.
I look at Bloodhound and he nods.
I close the pliers around Creedy's right index finger.
The metal bites into the skin above the first knuckle.
"This is the hand you used on Saylor's mother." I don't raise my voice. "This is the hand you used on the two women who put you in prison for twelve years. These fingers have done nothing but hurt people since you learned how to make a fist."
Creedy's breathing accelerates. The chair creaks under him as his body tenses.
"You had chances." I tighten the pliers. "Saylor told you to stay away. Her mother told you. I told you. You smiled and waved and came back every time because you thought nobody would stop you."
I lean closer. Close enough to see my reflection in his pupils. "I'm stopping you."
I twist the pliers slowly.
The metal grinds against the knuckle, and I feel the resistance through the handles.
The joint fighting, giving, then popping with a sound like a green branch snapping.
The sound Creedy makes fills the kitchen. Not a scream. A howl.
Primal, involuntary, ripped from somewhere beneath language.
His spine arches against the chair, his left wrist straining against the zip tie until the plastic slices into his skin and draws a thin line of blood.
Maddox steps behind the chair and presses both palms on Creedy's shoulders, holding him in place.
I don't look away. I watch his face the entire time.
Watch the mask he's been wearing for weeks—the smile, the charm, the practiced patience—peel off layer by layer until what's underneath is the same thing Saylor and her mother have been seeing all along.
A man who hurts people and calls it love.
The pliers move to the second finger.