The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“Let me guess, there is a perfectly good explanation for the bullets, right?” She chuckled bitterly, and I was glad she at least didn’t do the whole let-me-down routine women were so fond of.

“There is,” I clipped, “but you are not going to like it.”

“I’m all ears,” she said.

I slammed the door shut with my foot behind us, planting her back on the couch and squatting between her legs, snatching her gaze and hands.

“You calm?”

“Don’t treat me like a baby,” she snapped.

“Don’t act like one,” I deadpanned.

“Why do you have bullets in a jar? Dozens of them, no less.”

“Why do you think I don’t want people to get into my apartment?” I answered her with a question, my newfound technique courtesy of Deidra or whoever the fuck I almost had sex with at Badlands tonight.

“Evidence.” Her teeth chattered, and she hugged herself.

“I take the bullets out of the people I kill and keep them.”

Sam, you fucking idiot. An admission to the woman whose father you are about to slaughter like a sacrificial lamb.

She stared at me in terror mixed with … fascination? Of course. I kept forgetting that she, too, was a monster. I picked up the bullet she dropped on the floor, ignoring the scent of the whiskey as it soaked its way through the carpet.

I flipped the bullet, tapping it with my finger.

“See this? M.V.? Mervin Vitelli. I engrave their initials, so I don’t forget.”

“Why don’t you want to forget?” She frowned.

Because if I start forgetting all the people I kill, nothing will separate me from an animal, and I will become a real monster.

Soon enough there would be a bullet with G.F. engraved on it, a fact that reminded me I should put some distance between Aisling and me. I stood up and walked back to the kitchen, returning with the Macallan bottle—sans tumblers this time. I took a swig straight from the bottle, passing it to Aisling. I lowered myself into a recliner opposite her, the coffee table serving as a barrier between us.

She took a small sip and winced, handing it back to me.

“I knew you killed people, but it’s very different to actually see proof of how many lives you’ve taken.”

“The first one is the most meaningful one. After that, taking lives feels the same. Like a second or third bite of an ice cream cone. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to know the people I kill are pieces of shit,” I replied.

“I’m not so sure,” she said, and by the way her forehead creased, I could swear she was talking from experience.

“You came here to talk. Talk,” I ordered, knocking the side of her sensible boot with my loafer.

She blinked as she took in the apartment, its bare walls and cold nothingness I surrounded myself with. I liked it that way. The less I had, the less I became attached to things. It was an expensive brownstone, at three million dollars, but different from Avebury Court Manor, which was laden with paintings, statues, and other luxurious symbols of wealth.

There was nowhere to hide here. It was just us and the walls and the unspoken truth sitting between us like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

“My mother wants to file for divorce.” Her voice cracked. She looked downward, her neck like a broken flower stem.

“I know it sounds ridiculous to you,” she rushed to add. “After all, it’s a well-known fact my parents have never been faithful to one another. Their marriage is considered a sham in most social circles of New England. But for me, it means something. It means a lot, actually. Growing up, I knew I had the stability of Avebury Court Manor. Even though Mother and Da weren’t a functional couple, they were still a couple in their own strange way. Believe it or not, Sam, they worked. I know I’m not an impressionable teenager anymore and worse things happen to twenty-seven-year-olds. Some people lose their parents, their partners, even their children, but I just don’t understand…” she shook her head, tears hanging on her lower lashes for dear life, refusing to fall “…how everything escalated so quickly. One moment we were leading a normal life—as normal as life could be for us—and the next everything exploded. The provocative pictures of Da and that … that woman materializing out of nowhere, the poisoning. Someone is trying to ruin my father, and Athair thinks it’s my mother.”

I stared at her, offering no words of explanation or encouragement. What could I say?

Actually, now that you mention it, I’m behind the operation. Jane is merely collateral damage. Be thankful it’s not you I’m throwing under the bus. And by the way, this isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, so buckle up, sweetheart, because I’m about to make him remortgage your childhood house and bleed him dry of his billions.