Page 50 of The Pleasure of Panic

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Why did I get sent here?”

“Why?”

“Because one day…” The whole fucking thing flashes through my head in this one moment. Everything that went down that night. “One day I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Nah. I’m not gonna do it. I’m done.’”

Issy is quiet now. So I just go on.

“And he pulled out a gun and put it to my head. And he said, ‘The only way you’re done is if you’re dead, Finnegan.’”

“Jesus.”

“And… well—” I consider lying again. But what’s the point? “I shot him first. Because even though I really didn’t want to believe he’d shoot me… I knew he was gonna do it.”

Issy’s mouth is hanging open. Her eyes wide.

“Because he had this look of surprise on his face when he realized I had my gun out. And then he laughed, and I could almost feel the muscles in his arm, like he was about to pull that fuckin’ trigger. And I just happened to pull mine first.”

“You’re here because you killed your FBI dad?”

I shrug. “Ya know, Issy, I’m not really sure why I’m here.” I continue lacing her boot, and feeling proud of how it all looks. I’m practically an expert. This one goes much quicker. Not that I’m trying to be quick. It actually feels good getting some of this shit I’ve been carrying around for the past few months off my back. “I’m just taking it one day at a time. I’m not doing a very good job at that, but I’m trying.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” I say. But that’s all I have for that. And I’m tying the bow at the back of her knee anyway, so her time is up. I sit back on my heels, admiring my work. She twists around to try to get a glimpse. “You’re goddamned sexy, you know that?”

She shrugs when I look up at her. “It’s the boots.”

But I shake my head as I stand back up. “Nah, It’s not the boots. It’s just… you.” And then I place my hands on her cheeks, lean in, and kiss her. Like really kiss her.

When I pull back her eyes are open. Watching me. “So,” I say.

“So,” she says.

“Am I a good witch or a bad witch?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ISSY

“I’m not sure yet,” I say, answering his question. “You definitely come off as good witch. On the outside, I mean. I can’t explain it, but bad guys don’t admit shit like that to people they hardly know.”

“But you’re not sure about what’s on the inside.”

I stare at him. This man I didn’t know yesterday morning. This man I met under the strangest of circumstances. This man who has proclaimed himself my protector.

This man killed his own father.

If my silence makes him nervous, he doesn’t show it. He bends down, picks up the costume, and says, “Take all the time you need to come to a conclusion. But while you’re doing that… may I?”

He shakes the lingerie in his hand, shoots me a wicked grin that has bad witch written all over it, and then he winks.

His wink is a thing, I decide. To put people at ease. To make them forget bad witches even exist and there’s nothing to see here but goodness.

And it works. For me, at least. Because I feel pretty OK about his confession.

Why is the question. Why do I feel OK about it?

Is this a game with Jordan? Or is this all real? Would a guy admit to being a dirty FBI agent, and killing his dirty FBI agent father, and being demoted and sent to—