It kills me that my best wasn’t anywhere near enough to keep her safe. To keep her alive. I find the idea physically sickening. I got so caught up in my own shit with Charlie, Sloane and her sister, that taking care of Lacey took a backseat. Of all the people in the world to drop the ball with, Lace should have been the last. She was unstable. She was a complete fucking mess, really. I should have had a weather eye fixed on her every goddamn second of the day. I feel like I failed her.

Surprisingly, that’s not the part that makes me the saddest, though. I’m the most raw, simply because I miss her. I miss her already. My sister has only been gone from this earth for a short space of time, but the length of time doesn’t seem relevant right now. Perhaps it’s the knowledge she won’t be coming back, not ever, that makes the ache in my chest so unbearable.

I sat there all night staring out the window while Sloane slept, and I fought my very nature. I wanted to smash everything. I wanted to burn everything to the ground, not just Charlie’s place. I wanted to go on a rampage and beat people, kill people with my bare hands. But then I came to a number of realizations. The first was that there was no one left to beat. No one left to kill. Nothing left to burn. The second was that my complete and utter fucking failure as a brother meant I was never going to fail the important people in my life again. That especially went for Sloane. The third realization that hit me, as the sun was rising over Seattle and Ernie was snoring gently in a soft gray heap at my feet, was that I’d fucked up Sloane’s life.  I’m not crazy. I was already well aware that I’d fucked up her life, but I realized it was on me to fix it. So that’s what today has been about—fixing things, for me and for Sloane. Because though I definitely don’t fucking deserve it, my sister always wanted me to be happy, too.

Three pieces of paper burning a hole in my back pocket. One burned-down mansion. Hopefully a tentative bridge built between Sloane and her ever-so-fucking-annoying friend. I only have two more things to cross off my list. Two items that are currently in the works.  I made a brief stop off on the way back to the hotel to resolve one of them, so really it’s only one.

The concierge of The Regency Rooms is a woman this time. She gives me an inviting smile as I head for the elevator, and I find that I’m smiling back, though not how I might have done before Sloane. Now I am polite, but I am also taken. I will never be smiling at another woman the way she just smiled at me.

Inside the elevator, the cell phone I left in my ride when I went to see Lowell chimes.

You told her what I told you to tell her?

212-776-4540  rcv’d 7:59 p.m.

Yes. She’ll be coming for you next week. You got everything planned out?

Sent 7:59 p.m.

I’ll be ready. Catch you on the flip side, brother-in-law.

Rcv’d 8:00 p.m.

During the brief conversation I had with Rebel earlier, the president of the Widow Makers told me to give Lowell the thumb drive he’d given to Sloane.  Once I’d handed that over to the Agent, along with the password—Accordia—Lowell then had access to a group of files containing the personal details, locations and addresses of all the women Rebel had relocated. Lowell seemed almost disappointed that none of the women were dead.

Along with that information, Rebel also told me to give her the date he would be back in New Mexico. By the eighth of December, in ten days time, the Widow Makers will be back at their clubhouse, ready and waiting. I don’t know what his plan is. Technically Lowell can’t investigate him for the girls, who are all still alive, but she can come after them for Alexis. They’re crazy, but I understand why they want to face her. The same reason I had to face her today: so he and Alexis can get on with their lives. For there to be an end to this madness.

When I step off the elevator, the first sound I hear is that of breaking glass. I charge straight for the apartment I share with Sloane. Was I wrong? Maybe one of Charlie’s boys held a grudge. Maybe one of them found out where she was and decided to finish what the old man started. My pulse is hammering all over my body by the time I manage to get the door open.

Pippa is lying on the floor on her back, laughing hysterically. I come to a halt, one fist raised, struggling to understand what I’m actually seeing. Pippa on the floor? Pippa on the floor, laughing? She sees me, her eyes sluggish as she tries to focus on me, and lets out a shriek. “Zeth! Zeth’s back!”

I hear a strangled sound somewhere farther into the apartment—the bathroom, maybe? Sloane’s head peeks out in the hallway. “There you are!” She comes running and throws herself at me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my hips. She kisses me, and she tastes like beer. It takes me a moment to kiss her back. Not because I don’t want to be kissing her, but because I’m savoring the moment. Her lips on mine, her body pressed up against me. I was glad when she gave me some space yesterday—I needed it desperately—but right now having Sloane this close feels imperative.

I fix my arms around her back, fiercely holding onto her the same way she’s holding onto me. She stops kissing me then, and rests her forehead against mine.

“You’re drunk,” I tell her, in case she hasn’t realized. 

“I know. You were gone.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was worth it, though, I promise.”

“Michael’s sick. He drank himself sick,” Sloane whispers. She looks adorable like this, wide-eyed and more than a little drunk.