Witness

28. Kaiden

Took her fucking underwear. 

"Don't do anything stupid," Jen warns once more.

Her voice feels like an annoying little bug at the moment, trying to reason with what I'm sure feels like a brick wall. I tap my foot against the accelerator, speed past another set of cars. 

"Right," I grumble. 

"You called me, Kaiden. You wanted a voice of reason." 

I didn't want one. It just felt like the best course of action, especially because I'm genuinely considering just fucking offing him. 

"Then reason." 

"She's just a girl-" 

"Reason better," I cut in. 

Chelsea Jones might just be a girl, or a woman, or another human being. She might have the most normal life in the city; she might want everything that every other woman in the world wants, and dream of getting married, and maybe she even has a little drawer full of chocolate next to her bed, but that doesn't change a thing. 

I think of her panicked voice on the phone, of the strong face she put on in front of me yesterday, of the haunted look behind her eyes as she curled into herself on my sofa, and I don't care how many reasons Jen could come up with to stop me retaliating. I can't stop myself. 

It's too familiar, this feeling. 

So familiar that it scares me. 

"The police want him more than you do," Jen is saying. 

"They can have him in a body bag." 

"Kaiden, you're not thinking straight right now. I get that you like this girl, really, I understand, but you can't kill every guy that's been creepy with her. You just can't. And you're better than that as well." 

I'm not. 

Chelsea can probably sense that, too. 

She's spent enough time around Damien to realise that people can have two sides. I might be better than the Mierro's, but I've still done my fair share of bad things. 

"Why don't you spend some time looking into the ex-wife, instead? Take your mind off it?" 

"We don't know where she is." 

"Didn't you go to the office at all yesterday?" She sounds shocked, which is fair. It's not like me to take a step back from work. But apparently, watching Chelsea moan over pizza on my couch was more important. "I left a police file on your desk. She's been put into witness protection alongside her son. Tony's son." 

Two beeps sound from the speaker as soon as she's finished speaking. 

Incoming call: Chelsea.

"I'll call you back." 

"Shit," I hear her hiss just as I hang up the call. 

Likely because she's assuming I'm about to do something very, very awful. 

(I'm still considering it.)

I answer it quickly, slowing down and crossing over a lane. I realise I've been pushing one hundred for the last five or so miles. Someone glares at me as they overtake me. Fuck you, too. 

"Hi, are you alright?" 

"Are you that used to me calling you in a crisis?" She asks, genuinely curious. 

Apparently, I am. 

"So there's nothing wrong?" I clarify. 

"You sound angry."