I don’t go straight back to the shrink’s apartment. I walk through the park and make a point of dragging my feet on the way back, not wanting to step foot in the building. There’s no way I’m risking running into that Newan woman. Not today. I’m in a foul mood after Sloane’s confession; I half wanted her to tell me to go fuck myself and never bother her again. That would have solved this precarious, alien situation I find myself in. But now I realize my situation, and it’s freaking me the fuck out.

 

She didn’t send me away. So now I’m with her. There’s no room for any other option. There won’t be any leaving her. There won’t be any going back, or changing my mind or getting bored. It’s kind of hilarious that Sloane thinks I’ll tire of her and kick her to the curb as soon as something more fascinating comes along. For me, there has never been nor ever will be anything more fascinating than her. I knew that back in that hotel room when I slept with her for the first time. That’s why I ran as fast and as far as I could. I wasn’t ready for this back then. I’m not ready for it now, but I’m just gonna have to get fucking ready. And fast. She did want me to go and get her last night, but I fell prey to stupid game playing that I’ve always said I wouldn’t partake in. I hate admitting it, but this whole fucking thing is making me behave in a way I swore I never would. I need to get my fucking shit together.

 

“Zeth! Hey!” Lacey jogs down the steps outside Newan’s ritzy building, grinning from ear to ear. She has a red A4 folder clutched to her chest, her hair a shock of golden curls blowing about her face as she runs toward me. My god. Sometimes…sometimes she looks just like—

 

“I have homework.” She slaps the folder into my chest, laughing, and the moment of half-remembered pain vanishes. “It’s just like fucking high school,” she tells me, whispering.

 

“Sweet. Twenty-six and still doing assignments. Why are you whispering?” I almost immediately regret asking. The reason becomes very clear, as Newan appears in the doorway.

 

“I thought you might be a little reticent to join us, Mr. Mayfair. I came down to have a quick chat with you about our last conversation.”

 

Yeah, I’ll bet you did, bitch. I really don’t like this woman. I like that she’s helping Lace, but apart from that I could quite happily never set eyes on her again. Ever. “Oh, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” She raises one eyebrow at me, dragging her gaze over me as though she can’t really stand what’s she’s seeing either. “We had an agreement, didn’t we? And as far as I’m aware, you’re still seeing my friend. So therefore…”

 

“Therefore you think I should be coming to you for therapy,” I growl. “I’ve been thinking about that, and I’ve decided to seek help elsewhere. No offense.”

 

“Oh?” She sets one hand on her hip, leaning against the doorframe to her building. “And who’s treating you?”

 

“Dr. Phil.” Lacey whacks me on the arm with her folder, chuckling at my sarcastic response. Newan doesn’t appear to be quite as amused.

 

“Right. Well, I have to admit I fully expected you to flake. Never mind. I was just hoping you’d care enough about Sloane to get things squared away before delving in too deep with her.”

 

She’s baiting me. I know it, can see it a mile away, and yet I still rise to it. “And what things do I need squared away?”

 

Her bland look of boredom is so at odds with her next words. “Well, there’s the time you spent in prison. That’s undoubtedly left a few residual issues behind. And your abuse as a child. Victims of violence at an early age tend to become violent offenders later in life.”

 

My blood is boiling in my veins. For half a second I think Sloane’s told this woman all about me, but then she says something else and I know for a certainty that it wasn’t Sloane. It can’t have been.

 

“And then of course there’s the history with your mother.”

 

Sloane doesn’t know about my mother. No one knows about her. Not even Lacey. The only people who have any sort of records about her or her past are the cops, which means that Dr. Newan must have pulled my file to get my details, and then in turn gone snooping into my fucking shit.

 

Lacey looks like she’s been slapped around the face. “What does that mean? What about your mom?”

 

I slowly climb three of the steps toward Sloane’s friend, my hands twitching at my sides. I have to remember to breathe—to not react without thinking. “You’re gonna mind your own fucking business from here on in, Pippa Newan. You’re gonna keep your nose out of my past. You’re not gonna concern yourself with my future, either. If you’re going to take that out on Lacey, then so be it. I can find another doctor who can give her treatment easily enough. And finally, you’re going to give Sloane the respect she deserves. She’s a smart woman. She can figure out what she wants all on her own without you pulling strings and interfering in her business, either. You feel me?”

 

She should never have brought up my mother. She should never have gone rifling into things that don’t concern her or anyone else for that matter. I stare her down, clenching my jaw, daring her to say another fucking word.

 

To my right, it looks as though Lacey’s post-session high has come crashing down around her ears, and silent tears are streaking down her cheeks. She tucks herself into my side, not turning around to look at Newan. I feel like a massive shit for probably ruining whatever progress Lace made with the doctor, but fuck me if I’m gonna be manipulated or maneuvered in any way, shape or form.

 

Newan stares back down at me, hand still on her hip. She doesn’t blink. She’s good—she doesn’t give anything away. I can’t tell if her plan was to get me to react badly in order to make her point, or if the last few minutes haven’t exactly gone the way she’d expected. Either way, she’s maintaining her cool.

 

“There are two different kinds of victims in this life, Mr. Mayfair,” she says, her voice the kind of cold that only a true scientist can affect. “The kind who crumble under the weight of the horrific things that have happened to them or those they love, and then there’s the kind who use their experiences to shut themselves off from everything. And those people, the people that shut themselves off? There’s never room for two people in the safe, comfortable world they build for themselves. If you try and fit Sloane into yours, Zeth, you’re going to break her.”

 

I wrap my arm around Lacey’s shoulder, turning to guide her away from the other woman. “You’re wrong,” I call over my shoulder. “We’re not all cookie-cutter fuckups. And living in my world? That’s only going to make Sloane stronger.”

 

I feel the certainty of those words in my bones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

There’s yet another message waiting for me when I head back to the warehouse. It’s only been one fucking day and he’s already getting impatient. This time, his note is a little more concise. A little more demanding.

 

 

 

 

I wouldn’t leave it too long, Zee. You make me wait much longer and other people will start paying the price.

 

 

 

 

At the bottom of the paper, there’s a picture of Sloane. It’s not a recent one; her hair is much shorter and she’s posing for the photo, smiling. I doubt very much she’d have smiled for Charlie. It could have been taken from anywhere, but I have a sinking feeling that I recognize this one. I remember seeing it at Sloane’s parents’ house, up on the wall. No way. He fucking wouldn’t.

 

Lacey ran straight to the bathroom as soon as we got back, but she left her cell phone behind. I snatch it up, searching—does she have it? Does she have it? Yes!—and finding the number I’m looking for.

 

The phone rings four times before someone answers. A woman. Sloane’s mother. “Romera residence.”

 

“Hello, Mrs. Romera. My name’s Zeth. I’m one of Sloane’s friends. I came to the house with her the other day?”

 

“Oh, yes, the man with the tattoos,” she says. “Yes, of course. You came to pick up Lacey, right?”

 

“Yeah, that’s right, I—”

 

“My husband wanted to talk to you, actually. He wanted to thank you for getting the car back in one piece. He said it’s running better now than before Sloane took it. Did you have it serviced? If we owe you any money, please just let me know.”

 

Whoa. Whoa, hang the fuck on. The car? My brain is working overtime, racing ten steps ahead here. A dawning realization comes over me, sending a blast of adrenaline racing through my veins. “You have the car back, Mrs. Romera?”

 

“Yes, your friend dropped it off first thing yesterday morning. Why? Is everything okay?”

 

I told Sloane’s dad I was going to get Michael to drive his station wagon back to him, but the truth was that his car was long gone. There was no way to ever get it back from Julio’s. I’d assumed I was going to have to buy another car and try and pass it off as his or something, like a kid who’s goldfish has died. But now she’s telling me my friend already took it back?

 

“Was he English, Mrs. Romera? The man who brought the car back?” I clench the fist of my free hand, waiting for her to respond.

 

“Yes, he was. Charles, right?”

 

God. Damn. It. I exhale, trying to breathe through the inferno of anger that’s trying to take over my whole system. “Did you invite him inside?”

 

There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line, and then Mrs. Romera says, “Yes. I did invite him inside. He stayed for morning tea; he was very charming. Is there something wrong, Zeth? You sound tense.”

 

“No, no, it’s nothing,” I grind out. “I’m just expecting Charles back here in Seattle is all. I didn’t know how delayed he was going to be.”

 

“Oh, I see. Well, he said he had to rush off for a flight straight after we finished our tea, so I’d bet he’s already home by now. The flight from here to Seattle’s not long at all.”

 

“Yes, you’re right, Mrs. Romera. You’re exactly right. I guess I’ll call him, then. Thanks so much for your time.”

 

“Not a problem. Thank you for looking out for Sloane, too, Zeth. Lacey told us you’re quite taken with her.”

 

I hang up, squeezing my eyes shut.

 

This.

 

Is.

 

Not.

 

Fucking.

 

Good.

 

He went to their house? Charlie went to Sloane’s fucking parents’ house? And worse than that, worse than the fact that he could have done absolutely anything to them, he went to Julio’s first. He couldn’t have gotten the car otherwise. That means they must be on relatively good terms with one another…and their focus is turned on me.

 

Fuck.

 

I throw Lacey’s phone without thinking; it explodes against the wall in a shower of black plastic and glass. I can deal with Charlie coming at me. Julio, too. I can deal with both of them coming at me together, but I can not deal with them fucking with Sloane. Sloane’s oblivious middle-class parents. I will not let that happen.

 

I’ll tear their fucking worlds apart before I let that happen.

 

It’s time to make a move.

 

 

 

 

******

 

“Are you high?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah, you are, man. You’re fucking high. It’s broad daylight. At least let me come with you.”

 

“No. I want someone watching Sloane’s parents’ house. Twenty-four hours a day, Michael. Find someone. And I want you to watch Sloane. Make sure Charlie’s boys don’t go anywhere near her. If they do, don’t skimp on the bullets.”

 

Michael sighs on the other end of the phone. He knows better than to argue with me, especially when I’m tasking him with watching over Sloane. This time he wants to argue, though. He knows where I’m headed and he thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have, but there’s no other way to handle this.

 

Michael hangs up, and I continue my drive through Hunt’s Point. I stop at a red light and a woman pulls up next to me in a minivan. She smiles at me, a kid slapping its chocolate-covered hand against the window in the backseat, displaying a toothy grin, and I scowl back. It’s only when the female driver’s expression changes from a polite, neighborly greeting to mild concern that I let myself smirk a little.

 

Sam and O’Shannessy are in the guard car parked on the street outside Charlie’s place. Paddy sprays coke out of his nose when he sees me pull up in the Camaro. I park directly in front of the gates, blocking the entrance so no one can get in or out, by which time he and Sam have climbed out of their sedan and are running across the road.

 

Paddy reaches me first. “The fuck are you doing here, Zee? You have to be out of your mind. You’re dead, you know that right? You’re fucking dead! Charlie’s gonna—”

 

I slam my fist into his windpipe, cutting off whatever Charlie is gonna. Paddy hits the deck, and then it’s just me and Sam. He’s had time to pull his gun now, so the guy thinks he has a fucking pair of balls. Sadly, he’s mistaken. I step into his weapon instead of running away. I move forward until the business end of the gun is pressing firmly into my chest. I glare at the bastard, feeling the itch building inside me. That burning, insatiable itch that says this is not going to go well for him. He sees the look in my eyes and he knows it, too.

 

“You think I won’t shoot, don’t you?” he asks.

 

I shrug. “Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. If you are planning on pulling that trigger, you might wanna raise your aim a couple of inches. ’Cause right now, your only gonna puncture a lung and I can work on half a lung, bitch. Long enough to tear your fucking balls off, anyway.”

 

The motherfucker actually pales a little at this. “I don’t know what your problem is, Zee. Charlie says we do something, we do it. You were the same until a few weeks ago. You know this isn’t personal.”

 

I push my face in his, growling under my breath. “That’s where you’re wrong. This couldn’t be more personal.”

 

“Huh?” He actually looks confused. Stupid bastard.

 

“You and Paddy were the ones who broke into Sloane Romera’s place, right? You’re the only two assholes in the history of organized crime who’ve had their asses handed to them by a woman.”

 

He looks offended at this. “That whore shot me up with enough painkiller to destroy my fucking liver. If I ever see her again, she’ll wish—”

 

My fist connects with his temple. He. Should. Not. Have. Called. Her. That. “No, fucker, you’re gonna wish. You’re gonna wish you’d never even heard her name. You’re gonna wish you’d had the sense to keep your fucking mouth shut around me. You’re gonna wish you’d fucking run as soon as you set on eyes on me today.”

 

With each word, I’m reaching back and smashing my fist into his head. The gun’s long gone. Sam crumples to the ground, blood pouring down his face. He holds his hands up, trying to protect himself, but I’m not in the mood to be fended off. If anything, it only makes beating the living shit out of him more enjoyable. Because it wasn’t just Sloane they went after that night. They went after Lacey, too. “Charlie thought he would kidnap my friend to get to me, and you went along with it. And you’re stupid enough to think this isn’t personal?” Once, twice, three times I let my fists swing down and strike him where he lies on the concrete. He lashes out, digging his fingernails into my forearm, trying to scratch his way free. Fucking girl.

 

“He wasn’t—that’s not why he wanted—”

 

Sam keeps struggling, gasping for breath; I ease off enough to let him talk. I’m vaguely interested in what he has to say.

 

“He didn’t want the girl to get to you, motherfucker. He wanted—he wanted her to make sure—make sure she was safe!”

 

I can’t believe this asshole. The fucking lies are just too far fetched. Paddy is starting to regain consciousness. I drive the toe of my boot into his gut, mildly annoyed by the inconvenience of his reawakening. He promptly passes out again—perhaps the smartest thing Paddy O’Shannessy has ever done in his remarkably stupid life—and then I turn my attention back to Sam. “You're trying to tell me Charlie sent you to kidnap Lacey for her own benefit?”

 

Sam’s eyes roll a little, showing way more white than normal. He was in a position of power a moment ago; he could easily have killed me if he’d wanted to, but he hesitated. Maybe it’s the size of me. Maybe it’s all of the things this guy’s heard about me—all of the nasty, evil shit I’ve done, all of the people I’ve dealt with in the past. Maybe it’s the stupid rumor that I just can’t be killed—I’ve been shot and stabbed countless times before, should have died at least five times, and yet I’m still walking around, causing problems for people like Sam and Paddy. Whatever the reason, it’s working in my favor. This fucker is shitting himself.

 

“It’s true,” he spits out. “Charlie said she wasn’t safe.”

 

“Yeah. How the hell could she be with evil motherfuckers like him going after her?”

 

He’s shaking his head, hands trembling, trying to straighten out his shirt, which is marked with crimson splotches of his own blood. “Not in danger from him. He said she was in danger from you.”

 

This gives me reason to pause. In my head I’ve been waiting for the right moment to finish what I’ve started; to beat Sam until he loses consciousness. But this statement has me backtracking. He can’t be fucking serious. Can not be fucking serious. Charlie thinks Lacey is in danger from me?

 

I don’t even bother laying hands on Sam. He’s too fucking pathetic. I turn and walk away, half wondering if he’s gonna retrieve his gun and shoot me in the back. I can imagine how it would feel with each and every step I take away from him—the searing burn of metal tearing into my body. The initial painless shock, and then the steadily building pressure that leads to the pain. The mind-numbing, all-consuming pain that tries to commandeer your brain, so you can’t think, feel, move past it. The pain never comes, though.

 

“Fine! You know what, go ahead! Go in there. Charlie’s gonna skin you alive, you fucking psycho!”

 

I keep on walking. The prospect of Charlie even trying is...well, it’s fucking delicious. He’s pushed me too fucking far. I will hunt the bastard to the ends of the earth and I will mount his head on a fucking spike before I rest easy again.

 

My mouth twists up into a smirk as I walk, because I’m pretty sure I’m about to set Charlie Holsan’s world on fire.

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

Charlie isn’t in his study. He’s not in his pretentious-ass library or anywhere else on the ground floor of his place either. I search the well-manicured grounds to the back of the building, and I search the pool house, too. Nothing. The bastard’s either ghosting me, or he’s upstairs. If he’s ghosting me, I will find him. If he’s upstairs, that means he’s probably with the Duchess. That could cause problems. Big ones. The Duchess is perhaps one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met—she still, after all these years, thinks Charlie’s a chartered accountant—but she’s also one of the nicest, too. It would serve no purpose to hurt her.

 

“Charlie!” I yell up the stairs, loud enough that my voice will reach every corner of the house. “CHARLIE!” Come and get your fucking ass kicked.

 

No answer. Not a sound.

 

Fucking perfect.

 

I start up the stairs, reaching behind me to take hold of the weapon that sits there: the Desert Eagle. It hasn’t seen much action recently. The last person it shot was Frankie Monterello. Today, it’s gonna shoot Charlie Holsan, and then...then it will never shoot another person again.

 

The top of the stairs; the corridor; guest bedrooms one and two; a bathroom; another study: all of these rooms are empty as I make my way across the house. Soon, the only remaining rooms are Charlie’s and the one opposite. The one I slept in for so many years—my old room. I check Charlie’s first.

 

The lamp on the bedside table is still on, even though daylight is pouring through the windows. The bed covers are flung back, rumpled in a welter of sheets in the middle of the mattress, and there’s a half glass of water resting on top of a book on the nightstand. A blister pack of medication sits alongside it. I enter the room checking behind the door like a fucking loser to make sure Charlie isn’t lurking there, ready to smash me over the head with some of his insanely over-priced, fucking ugly artwork. He’s not; that’s not Charlie’s style, but right now I’m not taking any risks.

 

I reach the bedside and pick up the blister pack—Degarelix. Degarelix? I feel the frown forming on my face. Why the hell is Charlie taking Degarelix? I’ve never heard of the drug before; I have no idea what it’s for. Is he sick? Surely—

 

The sound of running water, a toilet flushing, cuts through the heavy silence of Charlie’s usually bustling household. The en suite toilet. Damn, I should have noticed that the door was closed. I have the Desert Eagle in my hand, locked and loaded and aimed at the door in a heartbeat. The faucet sounds, someone washing their hands, and then the handle on the door turns. It seems to take forever for the door to open.

 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. C’mon, asshole. Get your ass out here so I can shoot you.

 

My finger’s halfway through pulling the trigger before I realize the person standing in the doorway isn’t Charlie. It’s the Duchess.

 

“Fucking hell, Sophie. I thought you were—” I stop talking. She’s crying. Black mascara is streaked down her face in dark runnels, and her nose is red. She’s beautiful, always has been—I think I got my very first boner over this woman—and the devastating sorrow on her face only seems to make her even more so. “What’s wrong, Sophie?”

 

She sniffs, lifting a hand to swat away her tears. That’s when I see the knife. And the blood. And the way that her whole body is shaking. The front of her silk lingerie, a subtle ivory by design, bears a violent red stain over her stomach, and one of the straps has fallen from her shoulder, exposing the curve and swell of one of her breasts.

 

“You shouldn’t be here, Zeth,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

 

“What’s happened, Sophie? Where’s Charlie?”

 

The Duchess just looks at me, face completely blank. Her eyes are welling with tears, a darker blue than usual and filled with a distant pain. I don’t really know what I should do. Something terrible has obviously happened; she has to be in shock. I take a step forward and her face instantly transforms, shattering into a mask of grief and horror. She starts to sob, covering her face with her hands. Her blood-covered hands. The wickedly sharp knife she’s brandishing is dangerously close to her face.

 

"Hey, hey, come on. Come on.” I take the three steps toward her just as her legs collapse out from underneath her. I catch her before she hits the floor, holding her underneath the arms like a child. “Tell me, Sophie. Tell me what’s happened.”

 

She sobs into my chest, her skin sticking to my shirt with the tacky, almost dry blood that’s mottled all over her fingers and her palms. “I know. I know, I know...” she says, over and over again. “I know!” She rears back then, and her hand flashes out, surprising me. She slaps me so hard that my ear rings. “I know. I know all about him. And I know about you, too!” She tries to slap me again, but I grab hold of her wrist. Maybe I was a little ahead of myself just now. It seems as though Sophie might not think Charlie’s an accountant anymore. And she apparently knows my role in Charlie’s organization, too. For thirty years, she’s been by Charlie’s side. Thirty years and she’s only just learning the truth of him now.

 

“Who’s blood is this?” I ask, shaking her by the shoulders.

 

She stops struggling, pausing to look up at me, and the mania leaves her eyes. A certain clarity replaces it. “It’s yours,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s yours. Yours and mine, Zeth. We…oh, we are the greatest fools on the face of this earth.”

 

I look down, confused, trying to see what the hell she’s talking about. A ripple of horror travels through me when I see where the knife is—buried up to the hilt in my side. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel it buried inside me. I can’t feel a thing.

 

“Sophie…”

 

“I'm sorry, Zeth,” she whispers. She raises her hand to stroke the side of my face. Her wrist is mangled, torn to shreds and pumping her blood out with a determined force that will see her dead very soon. Very, very soon. “But some injustices are too grave to forgive.” That clarity that possessed her eyes a moment ago fades, and the rest of her seems to fade with it. The strength leaves her limbs, her body falling limp in my arms. I tense, catching hold of her again, and a wave of pain rockets through me—the knife. The sight of the knife embedded in my stomach has been nothing more than a visual illusion until now, but the teeth of the pre-warmed steel have started to bite, telling me that the blade is very real and hell bent on killing me. Of all the people...of all the fucking people...

 

The Duchess sags to the floor in a boneless heap. She’s not quite dead, but she will be soon. I touch the handle sticking out of my stomach, and a cold, calm voice echoes inside my head. “Don’t touch it. Don’t take it out.”

 

So I don’t. I turn and I walk out of the room, out of Charlie’s house. Sam and Paddy have vanished, along with their sedan. Charlie’s neighbor, his sometimes golf buddy, is across the street, mowing his lawn.

 

“Hey, there!” he calls, waving. Smiling. Mowing. Fucking Ralph Lauren polo shirt and chinos. “How’s the day go—oh! Oh, god. Are you—is everything—”

 

I slam the door on the Camaro, cutting off his surprise at seeing me trailing blood across his neighborhood. The car roars. My head is fucking spinning. The world grows bright and then dims, black spots dancing in my vision. This pain is an old friend. An old friend come to stay this time, it would seem. Perhaps I’ll make it out of this godforsaken fucking neighborhood before I can’t see anything at all. I gun the engine, spin the steering wheel, and I burn out of the place before I bleed out and die in motherfucking suburbia.