Chapter 5: A Routine of Relief and Punishment

A domestic routine soon fell into place, one that I followed like a zombie.

Before he left for work every morning, Brad would kiss my cheek. “See you later, sweetheart.”

I hated that.

But I hated it more that I had to smile and accept it.

Everyday.

Then he'd locked the doors from outside so I couldn't go out. He'd bring groceries himself or make me go with him.

The click of the locks always felt like a breath of air I wasn’t allowed to take too deeply.

Being home alone was a mix of relief and punishment. I still nursed the idea of escaping, but I feigned compliance for my own good.

I cooked.

I cleaned.

When there was nothing left to do, the house would grow insanely quiet.

Sometimes, I'd sit by the kitchen window, listening to the ticking clock and the hum of distant traffic. Other times, I'd cry. Quietly.

But even that wasn’t simple with the CCTV cameras watching. So I learned the blind spots, picking the small corner beside the laundry door at the far edge of the pantry.

That was where I could let myself cry, but only for a few minutes, without his eyes finding me through a lens.

The nights were the worst.

He’d return late smelling of whiskey and smoke, all smiles until the smallest thing irritated him - the flavor of the broth, the tone of my voice, the way I looked at him.

Then the smiles would vanish, and I'd get punished.

Sometimes, with yelling.

More often with his hands.

Afterward, the house would fall into silence again.

He’d sleep soundly, as if nothing had happened, while I lay awake the entire night beside him, planning my escape just to stay sane.

Every morning, I’d tell myself it was one day closer to finding a way out.

And until that day came, I’d keep breathing quietly - just enough to survive.

~~~~~

BRAD

Brad killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching Howard Bowen’s house.

“You're sure he’s alone? Marco, Brad’s go-to guy for ‘unofficial’ tasks, asked. Marco sat in the passenger seat beside Brad, screwing a silencer onto his gun.

The street was quiet.

Across, the house sat behind a trimmed hedge, its lights still on.

Brad smirked. “He’s a rookie living in his late parents’ house. All he’s got is a big mouth and a conscience. Both need shutting. Let's go.”

They moved like shadows, boots silent on the dewy grass.

Earlier, at the department, Howard had walked in on him sliding incriminating evidence from lock-up into an unmarked bag.

The evidence was to be used in court against a local crime lord who pays Brad to look the other way.

“Got something to say?” Brad had asked, staring Howard down.

“No,” he'd answered cautiously, turning away immediately.

But Brad didn't like the look Howard had all day. He knew he'd have to handle it. And he was here to do just that.

He knocked lightly.

The door opened just a crack. Howard’s tired face appeared.

“Hawkins? It’s late-”

The door swung wide under Brad’s shove. Marco slipped in behind him, eyes sweeping the room.

Brad’s voice was low, almost coaxing. “You seemed to have trouble forgetting what you saw earlier. I just came to make sure my gut is wrong. And it never is. So, are we going to have a problem?”

Howard backed away, shaking his head while keeping an eye on Marco. “What you did was wrong. And you don't seem to have any trouble adding more charges to your sheet.”

Brad clenched his jaw. “You know, for a smart rookie, you're real stupid. Ask around. You don't want me for an enemy.”

“You don't scare me,” Howard said sharply, in spite of the tension in his shoulders. “Leave my house.”

Brad closed the gap between them, moving to grab Howard.

Marco drew his gun.

Howard swung, connecting once with Brad’s cheek. Brad recovered quickly and lunged, driving him into a table.

There was a loud crash.

Chaos followed. Furniture splintered. Glass shattered. Fists moved. A gun hidden under a cushion fell to the floor. Sweat glazed their skin, their breaths mixing as they fought violently.

Marco watched both men, his gun trained, waiting for the right moment.

Brad’s side suddenly ignited with agony: Howard had stabbed him with a shard of broken glass.

“Son of a bitch,” he groaned. “You stabbed me.”

Howard pulled back swiftly, reaching for his gun on the floor and pushing himself off the floor.

He pointed the gun at Brad.

"Now, back the fuck off," he said breathlessly.

Brad slowly got off the floor and straightened, wincing from the pain.

"You get that gun off my face unless you intend to use it."

With a flick of his thumb, Howard turned off the gun's safety, his index finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

"Get out."

Brad raised one hand, taking a step back at the same time, giving a side-eye to Marco.

Howard missed the exchange.

A muted shot sliced through the room.

Howard fell to the floor, gasping with his last breaths.

Brad staggered back, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, while he watched life fade from the rookie’s eyes.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “All you had to do was be quiet.”

“You good?” Marco asked.

“Peachy,” Brad answered, taking a moment to steady himself.

The glass was still buried deep in his flesh, causing him intense pain.

He tapped Marco’s shoulder.

“Quick,” he said, grabbing Howard’s wallet. “Smash the place up. Make it look like a robbery. Remove every trace of us, and get out fast.”

Marco nodded. “What about you?”

“Gonna try to not bleed out,” Brad said.

He limped out into the quiet street, leaving Marco behind to finish the farce before the sirens came.