The Mindf*ck Series

Chapter 6

𝘔𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺'𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.
- 𝘈𝘭𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘌𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘯

𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗔

My eyes are on Cheyenne Murdock as she wraps her arms around Alyssa, her daughter. Alyssa cries, but Cheyenne seems to shed ten years of age as she closes her eyes, exhaling relief.

Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see in case there’s even an ounce of guilt inside me for killing a father. An abusive husband 𝘢𝘯𝘥 father.

My hair is still damp, considering I didn’t take the time to dry it before leaving. I knew what was to come the second they found the bodies.

I watch through the window, waiting on something to happen. Someone will surely try to shut her up, and she has something Logan needs.

Murdock was a sick fuck, but he was also a smart one. He knew it was stupid to burn all the physical evidence as he was tasked to do. He also knew it would be wise to harbor it, keep it safe, in case the sheriff ever decided to turn on him the way he did my father.

The name of my father has become a cautionary tale to not get on Cannon’s bad side.

I’m going to turn this town into a cautionary tale of what happens when you destroy a family like mine.

But to instill fear, I have to show mercy as well. Mercy to those who were victims in their own right.
Mercy to those who are tired of being weak and silenced.

They’ll come for her. No doubt Murdock has run his big mouth about his evidence hoarding at some point. His wife wouldn’t know of its existence. But some of the other deputies—if not all of them—would.

As if to prove me right, I see headlights in the distance, the car shutting off and the lights being killed down the street.

I sit on my perch in the tree behind the house, cloaked in the shadows of
darkness. I guess I’ll be showering twice tonight.

The two silhouettes move toward the house, and I hop down from my tree and stealthily move inside the backdoor that has been left unlocked.

“Your bath is finished running,” I hear Cheyenne saying to her daughter as I stop inside the kitchen, gauging the windows that are concealed by the blinds. Only the back had visibility. The men are coming in from the front, but I need to prepare for one to slip around back.

“Okay,” the child says weakly, and I ignore the pang in my heart, reassuring myself that I did the right thing.

As soon as the child heads up the stairs, I step inside the living room, finding a spot I can’t be seen from the back, and study the back of Cheyenne as she lifts a picture of her late husband.

A small smile crosses her lips. “Rot in hell, you stupid bastard. Let’s see if the devil lets you lay your hands on him, or if he shows you a taste of your own medicine.”

A dark grin emerges on my own lips.
“I’m sure the devil will enjoy playtime
with Greg,” I drawl.

She stumbles, eyes wide and panicked as her head swivels around to see me.