“I’ll keep talking to the captains. Maybe I can flip a few more. Burke says he’ll stay neutral and convince a few others to stay out as well.”
“That’s a start.”
“But we need Hugh.”
Finn sighs and leans back. He studies me with a frown and I want to tell him to fuck off already, but he’s one of the last friends I have in this world. I think of Rory, dead Rory, and god damn, do I miss him. He’s another reason I keep drinking—him and all the other friends I’ve lost over the years.
Living a violent life with violent associates means they tend to meet sudden and violent ends.
And I am still not used to it. I don’t know if I ever will be.
“I’ve been thinking,” Finn says quietly, head tilted. “You don’t know she did it.”
“Who the fuck are you talking about?” I lean over my drink, smelling it. I can suck this one down, have another two or three, and it’ll be sweet oblivion for the rest of the night. Finn will complain, but he doesn’t understand. That bastard’s never cared about a woman for longer than it took to undress her, fuck her, and come between her legs.
“Tara. You don’t know she did it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother.” He sighs, frustrated. “You don’t know—”
“Stop it,” I snarl, glaring at him. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“She admitted to your father, that’s fair. But she would’ve had to work with Eunika if she was going to poison your mother, and why the hell would Eunika help Tara? That makes no sense.”
“Money.”
“Tara had no money.”
“Hate. Passion. I don’t know.”
“Kellen, come on. It’s thin.”
“She poisoned my father. Poison is her thing.”
He sighs and rubs his face. “I know that, but she used readily available drugs. It was a crime of opportunity, not something premeditated. Where the fuck do you think she got mercury from?”
“Stop it,” I snap, getting pissed now. “She did it. That’s enough.”
“You don’t know that. All signs point toward Hugh, not Tara. I know you’re hurting, but you don’t give a shit that she finished off your old man. You’re only mad because you think she did your mother, but I think you’re wrong.”
“I’m not kidding, Finn. If you keep pushing, I’m going to break this bottle and stab you with it.”
“Fine, go ahead, but that won’t prove anything. You still won’t know for sure. You’re basing all of this on a guess.”
“Fucking prick.”
“Yeah, buddy, I know.” He slips out of the booth and stares at me. “Don’t drink too much. You’re pathetic when you’re wasted.” He walks off without a word.
I salute him with the glass and throw it back.
We’ve been having that argument for two weeks. He’s not convinced she did it and I think it’s obvious. But a small needle of doubt has worked itself into my brain, and as I sit here alone with an empty glass, I slowly raise my hand up into the air.
And look at the ring on my finger.
My wedding ring. The wedding ring I haven’t taken off since I put it on. Even though I’ve wanted to throw it down the drain a dozen times in the last two weeks.
You don’t know.
Goddamn prick.
There’s a way to find out. I’ve been avoiding it, because on some level I’m self-destructive and all I want to do is wallow in my ceaseless pain and misery, but I know that won’t get me anywhere. I need answers. I need closure so I can move on and finish this once and for all.
It’s time to put this argument to rest.