“Ya think? You stabbed him like twenty times and it doesn’t even seem to bother you.”
“Right. And I should feel guilty? I should feel like a monster for killing a monster?”
“He was the only monster, Lilah. I know that.”
“Do you? Or do you think you’re one? Or I’m one? Or Kane is one? Maybe you need to see me clearly to see yourself clearly. The night I was raped—”
“I can barely stand to hear you say those words.”
“I’m not a delicate flower, proven by the fact that I killed that bastard, too, Andrew. I killed him. I know I’ve told you that, but I don’t know if you really know how it all went down. Kane dragged him off of me and I grabbed the knife that bastard intended to use on me and I stabbed him over, and over, and over again, and I would have stabbed him some more, but Kane shut me down. Then Kane made it go away. And I hated him for that. I left him for it. I had a right to do what I did, but I—”
“Would have lost your badge,” he supplies
“Yes. Exactly. Either way, if I were dead, or if I lived and got kicked out of law enforcement, the Society got me out of their hair. But the point is that I struggled to get by what I’d done. I questioned myself. I asked myself why I didn’t feel anything but joy when I remembered killing him. I felt like a monster. I don’t anymore. He wanted me dead. I survived. He did not. Roger wanted to do nothing but kill again. He lived to plan his next kill. Learn from me. Don’t expel energy on the piece of shit. Every bit of energy you’re spending freaking out over the monster you buried is energy you don’t use to find another monster. It’s energy you don’t use elsewhere. You’re not a monster, Andrew, and neither am I. But he was.”
He studies me long and hard. “I know this has been asked and answered, but I need to repeat myself. And I need you to repeat yourself. You really think Dad knew about the attack on you, Lilah?”
“I know he knew something was going to happen to me, and he felt no remorse when he heard I was raped.”
“And Mom? You think he was a part of her being killed?
“Did the order come from Pocher? I’m sure it did. Did Dad know? I believe he did. Dad loved the idea of Mom—her beauty, her fame, her on his arm. She had her own house to get away from him for a reason. He wanted to own her. When he couldn’t, she ended up dead.”
He presses fingers to his temple. “He wants me to take a role in his cabinet.”
“What role?”
“Advisor and yes, I realize this is an attempt to leash me and drag me into his power trip, Lilah, but I’m considering, for the reasons we both know I have to consider it. Hell, I have to take it.”
“You aren’t going to take down him or the Society on your own. I’m not even trying to do that. My boss is involved. I have resources. I have Kane.”
“And I have everything you have through you. If he had Mom killed, he has to pay. And the Society has to pay for what they did to you. It has to be dismantled. If I can play even a small role in this, I have to do it. I’m our insider.”
“It’s dangerous, Andrew.”
“So is wearing a badge, but I’ve been thinking about this long and hard these two weeks you’ve been gone. I can’t do nothing.”
“What about your job? You love being chief in that small coastal community.”
“Tell your boss when I take these motherfuckers down, I want my job back. Because you’re right. I like it. It’s where I want to be. But it’s not where I belong right now. He’s going to win the governorship. We have to show him support, Lilah. Help him seal the deal so I can get in there deep and do what we need to do to end this bullshit.”
I want to tell him no. I want to protect him and save him. But he’s not wallowing in the man he buried. He’s fuming over the ones he wants to bury and for good reasons. He’s not wrong about anything he’s said. I have to let him do this and everything inside me screams that this is a problem. This is how he dies. And I can’t stop it from happening.
Chapter Eleven
Andrew and I stare at each other, seconds ticking by before I say, “I can’t believe you’re really doing this.” I sit back.
He sits back.
The waiter reappears. “Would you like to order?”
I glance at the man, who is maybe fifty—tall, thin, and bald, wire glasses framing deep set eyes. “Two diet sodas and curly fries and we’ll finish with mochas.”