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Bastard (A Novel)

Chapter 15

By TestPublished 5 months ago 3 min read
Bastard (A Novel)
Photo by Andriyko Podilnyk on Unsplash

"Great."

George pounded his fist on the kitchen table.

"There is no way I can get evidence from Sarah Miller anymore. No way! I was 99% sure she was innocent but, even if she wasn't, she'll never go to jail now. She's dead and gone."

Furious, George Hamilton got into his SUV, determined to chase Frank Miller down.

He drove to all of the places he thought a murderer might go, all in vain.

He found nothing and no one.

Finally, he stopped in a parking lot to think.

What if the guy traveled out of the country? Maybe he's come back to get something. Killers always forget the details.

He knew this because he had solved multiple cases solely because someone forgot a key or left one fingerprint on the scene of the crime unwittingly.

He drove to Heathrow Airport, searching all the way for a familiar face: Before all of this had occurred, he had actually been friends with Frank Miller. Believe it or not, he had even attended a Christmas party with him and Roseanne. He and Jennifer.

Now, he was absolutely mortified: He'd trusted a murderer and he was going to find this man, no matter what it took.

Despite having very little evidence to prove his theory correct, George Hamilton was as certain that Frank Miller killed Roseanne Miller as he was that the sky is blue. 100%.

He looked through the window, spotting a man with a black wig and beady brown eyes. He would recognize those shrewd, sharp eyes anywhere.

It was Frank Miller.

Years ago, Frank had been on trial for raping a woman: Madison Grey.

George Hamilton still remembered that evening. September 4, 2001. Shadows had enveloped the dark alleyway between two brick buildings. A young woman with long black hair and a beautiful purple dress, above the knee, had been walking through it, supposedly on her way home after a long day of work.

He'd seen Frank Miller practically jump out and pounce on her, forcing himself on her body and shoving his dick into her like a rabid dog. He even heard the shriek.

He had gone to court as a witness, siding with Madison Grey, naturally, but she had proceeded to lose the case.

Frank Miller had hired an exceptionally talented lawyer with absolutely no emotional intelligence as far as he was concerned: Mr. Mackerson. He struggled to remember his first name.

Mr. Zachary Mackerson. Such a sleaze bag. A man who would do anything for money. Anything.

The long trial had stretched on for weeks, lasting about a month in the end.

He remembered the final words spoken by Mr. Mackerson.

"We have absolutely no evidence that this woman was raped. No videos. No photographs, no voice memos. Nothing at all except her word, and the word of one man: George Hamilton. Unfortunately, George Hamilton did not capture the event and there are no other witnesses so, as far as I am concerned, this case is closed."

Sadly, the judge and jury had agreed with him, and Madison Grey had walked out of that room resentful; she was a victim of a crime whose assailant had not been granted his fair punishment for the pain he had caused her.

The next morning, as George was walking home, he saw a woman on a balcony. A few minutes later, someone with long black hair wearing sweatpants and a black tank top fell, crashing onto the street.

It was Madison Grey.

He'd immediately figured it was suicide, but he'd taken on the case to thoroughly examine other possibilities.

In the end, his first hunch had, indeed, been correct.

All of this is to say that Frank Miller was a wicked, wicked man.

Ever since that trial, George Hamilton wanted to make Frank Miller pay.

Now, the bastard had done it again, this time to his own daughter.

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