He grunts, pressing his bloody hand over hers. “Can we kill them now?”
Posey looks at him. Throughout the whole exchange, she’s kept the barrel of that gun fixed on me, but now she lowers it, saying, “In a moment. First, you should be thanked for a job so well done.”
I scoff, because this guy’s one good stiff breeze away from collapsing.
But then she works her fingers beneath his mask, slowly lifting it. When his mouth appears, she tilts her head to kiss it. It’s during that disgusting moment that the three of us look for a new angle. She’s distracted. The gun is down. We could probably rush her, get it away, and then—
And then she rips the rest of the mask off.
It’s not the shock that it should be, but maybe I’m reeling from both being tased and my stepmother holding a gun at me.
When his face connects to the voice, the shoes, the luxury watch, the build, it makes perfect sense. He’s such a fixture around here, as invisible to me as the grandfather clock in the hallway upstairs. As unassuming as the empty vase on the mantel. As innocuous as the rug below our feet.
Martin.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” Tristian says, sneering as Posey breaks away. “How the hell did you even get in here?!”
“Oh, I never left,” Martin says, tossing his mask aside. He leans back on the desk—the same desk he was standing in front of eight hours ago as I rattled off a list of duties—and grunts as he inspects his shiny new stab wound. Breathlessly, he adds, “You really had this place locked down tight, Mercer. I waited weeks to finally get an in after I left that finger upstairs. Must have really shaken you up.”
I frantically think back to the meeting, leading out Tristian’s dad, Lionel Lucia, and the mayor. That’s the problem with Martin. He’s fucking wallpaper—there, but not. In the company of Kings, he’s so easy to overlook. I invited him in and never escorted him out.
Goddamn it.
But there’s one thing I’m almost sure of. “You’re not Ted,” I say, giving him a derisive look. Martin was still a little law school peon when Story began getting his letters.
“No, he isn’t,” a voice rings out.
Tristian, Rath, and I have known each other for a long time, and we’ve done a lot things together. There’s almost nothing we haven’t been through. We’ve even been inside of the same girl, at the same time, and still.
I don’t think we’ve ever been as connected as we are at this moment, hearing her voice.
The heart pounding relief flows between us like an avalanche, like marionettes having their strings cut, and even before we look to the door to set our eyes on her, the rhythm of our exhales is its own language, and it’s saying she’s okay.
It’s begging, run.
She coolly enters the parlor, dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans, her feet bare. Her gaze passes over us, one by one, taking us in. Her hair is still wet from our shower, but it’s hanging in a smooth braid over her shoulder, and when she extends her arm, lifting a finger toward her mother, she doesn’t even look surprised at the scene in front of her. “She is.”
Tristian’s jaw works around the same panic I’m feeling. “She’s what?”
“Ted,” Story clarifies, watching her mother dab at a cut on Martin’s forehead. “It was her all along. She was just trying to protect me. I see that now.” She pauses, eyes growing tight at the corners. “Although, I wasn’t expecting Martin to be here.”
Ms. Crane snorts, propping herself in the far corner. “Any port in a storm, right, Posey?”
Posey straightens, swinging the barrel of the gun to her, but Story steps in front of it, batting the gun down. “No. We’re not going to hurt her.”
The back of my teeth ache from how hard I’m grinding them. “Bit late for that, little sister.”
She tilts her head just-so—just enough for me to make out the curve of her cheek. “Killian, please.”
A sick realization builds in my gut, and I glare at Posey. “This fucking bitch tried to kill me. She killed Viv.” Rage wracks though me. “She killed my dad.”
“And then she tried to frame us for it,” Rath adds, edging toward Ms. Crane.
Posey lowers the gun, narrowing her eyes as she skirts around her daughter. “This should have gone a lot smoother, you know. I wanted you out of the picture before I got rid of Daniel. I didn’t particularly care how.” She flings a hand out, which is when I notice the gun. Silver. Small. If the light were better—if I were closer—I bet I could make out the engraving. Lady’s Choice. “If Ugly Nick had aimed a little higher. If Daniel had blamed you for Vivienne and he’d had the balls to do something about it. If he’d connected your threat on that video from Thanksgiving and the severed finger…” She lifts the gun again, pointing it right at my head. Her face hardens, eyes surging with bright fury. “If you hadn’t gone to that goddamn awards banquet!”