A Killing at Pine Needle Farm

Chapter 1

Four Years Ago

The vodka sat warm and bitter in Jake's glass, ice long dissolved into tepid water under the crushing weight of afternoon heat. He slouched in his poolside chair, sweat darkening his linen shirt despite the umbrella's shade, watching chlorinated water shimmer like mercury. Every ripple carried Sam Kite's face—that shit-eating grin from their last meeting, burned into Jake's retinas like a cattle brand.

"Go fuck yourself, Jake."

The words echoed in his skull, sharp as broken glass. Ten years of friendship that Sam described as a brotherhood. Two and a half million dollars. That was the price tag on their brotherhood, apparently— that’s what Sam thought Jake was worth when the buyout sharks came in.

Jake had built that empire from nothing. Transformed Sam's rinky-dink surgical center into a regional juggernaut with his epidemiological expertise, bleeding himself dry over countless eighteen-hour days. But the law was clear—only licensed physicians could own healthcare facilities. So, Jake had to trust. Had to believe in handshake deals and he had to have faith in this brotherhood.

His reward? A pink slip and a legal war that would bleed him white.

The betrayal cut deeper than money, though. It was the cold calculation behind Sam's smile. How many times had that bastard called him "brother"? How many nights had they drunk themselves stupid while Sam swore Jake would be treated as an equal when the big payday came? All performance. All theater so Sam could pocket an extra two and a half million.

Jake's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. Let's see how you handle me now, you arrogant fuck. His last email would be eating at Sam like acid—Jake knew exactly how to crawl inside that narcissist's head and set up camp. And Jake had nothing left to lose.

The worst they could hit him with was a fine, maybe a misdemeanor slap on the wrist. And what did Jake have left to lose?

But Sam? They'd strip his license, drag him through malpractice hell until he was nothing but a husk on the courthouse steps. As for Andrew, well, they'd work something out—but it would never come to that. Sam would pay up.

But right now, sweating in the sun, Jake was content knowing the bastard was twisting in knots, wondering what fresh hell was coming his way.

His phone buzzed against the glass table like an angry wasp. Grindr notification. Some faceless profile - 5'11", muscular, 37. The photos were all shadows and strategic angles, face obscured in that classic catfish style.

"Looking for NSA fun tonight. You're hot."

Jake's thumb hovered over delete. The last thing he needed was yet another meaningless hookup with some lying stranger. But the guy had game, knew exactly which buttons to push despite Jake's black mood. Maybe that's what he needed—to lose himself in someone else, forget about Sam's betrayal for a few hours.

"Whatever you want. I can be... creative."

Jake found himself smirking despite his mood. It had been too long since anyone surprised him. In a good way, at least.

They traded messages as the heat pressed down like a lead blanket. Eventually Jake slipped into the pool, staying submerged until his lungs screamed for air, then collapsed back into his chair and fell into merciful unconsciousness.

The phone's rattle dragged him back to consciousness. Messages piled up like accusations: "You still there?" "I'm Paul, by the way." "Let me know soon. Making plans."

Jake scrubbed stubble with his palm, feeling that dangerous cocktail of reckless and horny that came with having nothing left to lose. Paul's face was still a mystery, but his body looked like something carved from marble.

"My place," he texted back on impulse. "20 minutes north of Hudson. 7:30."

He dropped a pin and waited.

7:30 came and went. No Paul.

Another small betrayal to add to his collection. Jake barely registered the disappointment anymore—months of legal warfare had burned out his capacity for surprise. He mixed a fresh vodka tonic and slipped back into the pool, wishing he could stay submerged forever in that quiet blue void where betrayal, rage and hate couldn't touch him.

The sun bled out behind the Berkshires, painting the sky the color of old brass as cicadas shrieked their endless complaint. Jake settled into his wicker chair with his drink and a joint from the refrigerator, the furniture groaning under his weight. Fireflies began their nightly séance between the trees, green-gold phantoms pulsing against the gathering dark. Night-blooming jasmine wrestled with chlorine and earth for dominance in the thick air—he'd miss this place.

The first hit of weed hit his lungs like silk, finally loosening the iron bands around his chest.

By 9:15, thoroughly fucked up on chemicals and rage, Jake decided to call it. He went into the kitchen and opened the “pill drawer.” The Ambien went down smooth but 20 minutes later it hit him like a sledgehammer. His limbs turned to concrete as he stumbled through the house, fumbling with locks and light switches like a drunk marionette. Outside the pool lights glowed.

Shit. He opened the kitchen door and made his way across the lawn, occasionally taking a wrong step. A zig here. A zag there.

Walking back from killing the pool lights, his vision poor from swimming in chemical fog, he saw it—a shadow peeling itself away from the tree line like something born from darkness.

"Paul" materialized from the night.

Jesus fucking Christ. Way too late for this shit. Jake could barely stand upright. As the figure approached through the moonlight, Jake blinked hard, fighting to focus—this wasn't the man from the photos. Not even close. Older and heavier. Another gamer. Another liar.

"Party's over," Jake slurred, his tongue thick with Ambien and vodka. "Time to go."

The stranger kept coming. Another desperate closet creep Jake thought.

"I said leave." The words came out steadier now, anger cutting through the pharmaceutical haze like a blade.

But the man kept walking, closing the distance between them in the silver moonlight.

Chapter 2

Hours later, Jake clawed his way back to consciousness like he was drowning in cement. The ground was cold and wet beneath him, dew soaking through his clothes with the patient indifference of nature giving zero fucks about his misery. Just another hangover in paradise—except this one felt different. Heavier - when he tried to sit up, the world tilted violently sideways.

Ambien hangover. Jesus Christ.

Why the fuck was he outside? The last thing he remembered was stumbling around the house, trying to turn off the pool lights.

His hand went to his forehead and came away sticky. Red. Blood, but not much—just a thin trickle from somewhere above his hairline. He stared at his palm, watching the morning light catch in the dark smear across his lifeline.

The kitchen door gaped open behind him. Even in his drugged haze, he could see that something was wrong with the picture.

Jake forced himself to his feet, fighting waves of nausea. Each step toward the house felt like walking through quicksand. The Ambien was still in his system, making everything feel distant and unreal, like he was watching someone else's nightmare unfold in slow motion.

He reached the threshold and stopped dead.

The kitchen looked like an abattoir.

Blood wasn't just splattered—it was everywhere. A dark pool had congealed on the hardwood floors, reflecting the morning light like black mirrors. The marble island was painted red, with chunks of something gray and wet stuck to the corner.

And on the floor, face-up in a spreading lake of his own blood, was Paul. Or what was left of him.

The man's skull had been caved in like an eggshell. Bone fragments jutted from a crater where his forehead used to be, gray matter oozing out in thick, lumpy streams. One eye bulged from its socket. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, teeth stained pink.

Jake's legs gave out. He grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling, his fingers slipping on something wet and dark. The smell hit him then—not just blood, but the sick-sweet stench of death, of bowels released and brain matter exposed to air.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

But it was. The blood was warm under his bare feet. The smell was making him gag. And in the spreading silence of the morning, he could hear flies beginning to gather, their buzz growing louder with each passing second.

A memory surfaced through the chemical fog: Paul's face in the moonlight, but wrong somehow. Older. Heavier. Not the man from the photos. The surge of rage that had cut through his drugged stupor like a blade. And then—the sound of marble meeting skull.

Jake doubled over and vomited violently. The acid burned his throat as his stomach heaved at the growing horror of what he was seeing. He retched until nothing came up but bile, his whole body convulsing.

When he finally stopped, he was on his hands and knees in the doorway, gasping. The dead man stared at him with that one eye, accusatory even in death.

I did this. Oh Christ, I actually did this.

The thought hit him like a physical blow. His hands were shaking uncontrollably now, and when he looked down, he saw why. Blood. Under his fingernails, dried between his fingers, streaked up his forearms like war paint. His shirt was soaked with it.

He tried to piece together what had happened through the Ambien haze. Paul arriving late. Jake's rage at being lied to again—another catfish, another betrayal. But how had it escalated to this? How had he gone from angry to murderer?

The word hit him like a sledgehammer. That's what he was now. A murderer. Someone who had beaten another human being to death with his bare hands.

Jake crawled backwards out of the kitchen and onto the patio, unable to look away from Paul's ruined face. His vision was tunneling, black spots dancing at the edges. He couldn't breathe. The walls seemed to be closing in, pressing down on him like the lid of a coffin.

What the fuck am I going to do?

The thought came clear and sharp through his panic. This wasn't something he could lawyer his way out of. This wasn't a contract dispute or a business deal gone wrong. This was a dead body in his kitchen, his blood under his fingernails, his DNA all over the crime scene.

His phone. The texts. Paul's location data would show he'd come here. Jake's address was right there in the message thread, a digital breadcrumb trail leading straight to this moment.

I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked.

Outside, birds were singing. The normalcy of it was obscene—the world going on as if nothing had changed, as if Jake hadn't just crossed a line he could never uncross. As if there wasn't a man's brains leaking across his kitchen floor.

He sat there on the flagstones, staring through the open door at what he'd done, feeling his sanity fragment like safety glass. After everything—this was how it ended. Not with bankruptcy or professional ruin. With murder.

Jake's whole body was trembling now, shock setting in deep and hard. He'd killed a man. Beaten him to death in a drug-fueled rage over what—being lied to about his appearance? Another small betrayal in a life full of them?

What kind of monster am I?

The question echoed in his skull as he stared at the blood-soaked kitchen, at Paul's ruined face, at the evidence of his own capacity for violence. The Ambien was still clouding his thoughts, making everything feel surreal and distant, but the horror was crystal clear.

He had become something he never thought possible. And there was no going back.

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