The Killer's New Wife

“So why do you?” I asked, desperate.

He didn’t answer, and the car pulled out into traffic. I sank back in my seat and watched the city flash past as he drove around again aimlessly. I thought of my life, and all the times I could’ve realized something was wrong, and didn’t.

And all the girls that suffered because of it.

5

Ewan

That question still haunted me.

If I hated men like Larry and Jermaine, then why did I work for people that profited off them?

I had no good answer for that, and the question bothered me for the rest of the day.

I dropped Tara off back at the apartment and left her some cash. I told her to order some takeout if she wanted, but she stormed off into the bathroom, started the shower, and kept the door locked.

Poor girl. I wished I could do something to help, but there was nothing, not when her world was so broken. I left her alone then, since seeing me would only make it worse. I was the man that pulled the trigger and showed her the truth about her piece of shit father, and having me around would only keep those memories fresh and sharp.

I found Dean at a bar called Here It Is, a little dive joint near Girard. The place was dark, the bar oiled and polished, and the tables practically falling apart. Some were held together with duct tape and luck. They had two beers on tap and the cheapest liquor imaginable. Dean loved it because nobody knew him, and nobody bothered him.

I sidled up next to him at the bar and ordered a whiskey. It felt like rubbing alcohol in my throat.

“Bad day?” he asked, glancing at me over his drink.

“Something like that,” I said, and the bartender filled me back up, a dark-skinned guy with liver spots and a cheap hat pulled down low.

“How’s the girl?” He asked it casually, swirling his drink, but I felt his intense interest.

“Fine,” I said. “Back at my place right now.”

“You think it’s smart, leaving her along?”

I shrugged. “If she runs, then your father will hunt her down and kill her. If she doesn’t, she’s equally fucked. What’s the girl supposed to do?”

“I don’t give a shit what she does,” Dean said, sounding exasperated. His dark eyebrows pulled down and he ran a hand through his short hair. He wore tight black joggers and clean white sneakers, and a gun was tucked into his waistband. “I give a shit that you follow orders.”

“I’m following orders,” I said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t come here to get attitude from you.”

“Then why did you come here?” Dean turned to me, shoulders square. “You know how things are going right now, and considering your mother—”

I reached out fast and grabbed his shirt. He didn’t react as I yanked him toward me and snarled in his face. “You don’t talk about her.”

He spoke calmly. “Considering your mother was Irish and there’s some uncertainty around just how connected you are with the Healys, my father understandably wants to be sure.”

I stared at him and took a few deep breaths to calm myself. I had to remember that Dean was my friend, and he meant well, even if he was being a real dick about it. I released him and he straightened his shirt, and I noticed the bartender standing nearby, staring at the two of us like he might pull a shotgun from under that bar at any second.

I stared at the bottom of my drink. My mother’s Irish heritage didn’t mean shit, and I thought he was about to bring up something else about her, something I tried to keep buried deep, deep down inside. I only shook my head and drank off half my whiskey.

“You know I’m loyal,” I said. “I don’t give a fuck if I’m some bastard half-cousin of the Healy family. Your father gave me a place and they didn’t.”

Dean nodded slowly and leaned forward on his elbows again. “I know that, man,” he said. “But my dad’s old school. He thinks blood lines matter, which we both know is stupid. It’s nurture, not nature, right?”

I grinned slightly. “You and that pop science shit,” I said. “You read too much.”

“What can I say, I’m a Renaissance man.” He sipped his drink and spun the glass. “I’m just saying, be careful, all right? This whole test thing is some stupid dangerous game, but my dad will get over it sooner or later. Just keep your head up.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “And I have the girl under control.” Although I didn’t know if that was true or not. Telling her about her father was a risky move, and it could backfire at any second. Hell, it might’ve already blown up, and I might go back home to find her gone.