I swallow over a knot in my throat, thinking back to the last time I stepped inside the colonial-style art center. The blood I cleaned off the walls, the groans of agony drowned out by the erratic beat of my heart, the skin beneath my grip as I sliced Senator Harrison open, making him pay for crimes against his family.
A reckoning he was not at all prepared for, if the darkness surrounding his corpse in the aftermath was any indication.
Of course, that could’ve been mine. It’s hard to differentiate, sometimes, and I stopped cleansing myself a long time ago. When these contracts became more frequent, and I put on the biggest hit of all.
Boyd catches up to me as I get to Fiona’s Jeep; she’ll probably throw a fit over me taking it, but I needed the large, leather back seat to transport the Circuit Judge’s body. “Let’s go.”
* * *
My mother’s hands shake as she tightens the bow tie around my neck, a tremor wracking her body that she pretends not to notice.
But I see it. My eyes glue to the wobbly movements, unease settling in the pit of my stomach, a concrete brick hurled at me by the universe. She fumbles with the collar of my shirt, a single, harsh breath the only indication of her irritation.
We’ve been here three hours at this point, mingling and networking with the entire goddamn town. My father announced a prize raffle early on and kicked off the starting bid at a cool million, citing the charity’s importance to the family in light of my mother’s diagnosis.
I can tell she’s tired from basking in all the attention, even though she was the one who insisted on coming. It’s why I swept her into this alcove, away from the crowd for a moment, allowing us a beat to recharge.
Gently removing her hands, I reach up and grip the tie myself, finishing the job. She takes a step back, admiring the handiwork with a crooked smile. Her dark red hair is twisted in a tight, elegant updo, a pearl brooch pinned to the back, holding it all together.
“How do I look?” I ask, even though I don’t actually care.
She beams, as much as she can when portions of her body refuse to cooperate with the signals from her brain. Her smile opens, lopsided and toothy, an almost imperceptible twitch sparking beneath her green eyes, but still she pretends she looks normal. For our family.
For me.
“Like a handsome prince, ready to rescue his princess.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one on this planet who thinks of me as a hero.”
She reaches out, squeezing my bicep. I don’t miss the way she clings to me as she steps forward, as if she doesn’t trust herself to walk on her own. Turning so we face the large, floor-length mirror bolted to the art center wall, she leans into me, studying our masked reflections.
Compared to anyone, Mona Ivers is frail. Fragile. Especially in her current state, flitting around public venues like her body isn’t constantly on the verge of shutting down.
Next to me, she looks like a small, withered woman, someone who wore out her rosary beads early on in life. Like she birthed two sons who gave her an endless supply of prayer subjects, and she wasted her better years trying to redeem us.
Now, Murphy’s dead and his blood stains my hands, no matter how many times I’ve tried to rid myself of him.
How she can see anything redeemable here is beyond me.
“You’remyhero,” she says in a low voice, our gazes connecting in the reflection. Offering me a half-smile, she turns and pulls me from the alcove, back out to the ballroom lined with tables decorated with expensive linens and china.
We weave our way through the crowd, settling in at our family’s table near the stage. My father stands off to the side, chatting animatedly with Orlando Montalto, the former patriarch of the Montalto family. He reaches up and scratches at his graying beard beneath his dark Pulcinella mask, regarding my father with a blank stare.
Melanie Smith drapes herself over my best friend, shooting fuck-me eyes my way; her mostly fake tits bulge from the tight red minidress she has on, her black hair falling over her shoulder and between the valley of her cleavage. Unlike the Ivers clan, Mel’s the only one not wearing a gold Colombina mask, a staple of our charity events; hers is scarlet and bedazzled, setting her apart from us. Thank fucking God.
My dead brother’s clingy ex needs to be as disassociated from us as possible.
She winks, as if I might be inclined to ditch my family and drag her to an empty bathroom. As if I’d betray Boyd that way, or leave my mother out here to fend for herself.
I mean, I would. Probably will. But not just yet. Mel’s got a sweet fucking mouth, even if the teeth inside are resin and her tongue sometimes feels like sandpaper when she’s high.
Judging by the way she gazes at me, pupils slightly dilated and unfocused, she is right now. Practically has been since my brother’s death.
Fiona twirls a strand of dark red hair around her finger, popping a pink bubble against her mouth. “I knew you’d try to sneak off before the night was over.”
Straightening the lapels of my suit jacket, I bring my wine to my mouth and take a deep gulp. “You smell like smoke. Seems all the Ivers kids are prone to breaking promises.”
Her eyes widen, stealing a glance at our mother, who sits swaying to the jazz music coming from the band onstage. “I’m sorry we can’t all exercise the utmost control over our addictions.”