Page 80 of Pretty Nightmare

There’s an old jacket hanging on the back of the desk chair. And a pad of paper on the desk with the note ‘call the plumber’ written on it in faded blue ink.

There are also four high-end cameras on the desk. I was into photography for a while back in my teens and my equipment was too dear to just shove it in a box in the attic.

But the duvet is new. Never seen it before, actually. And the rugs as well.

And when I open the closet, it’s empty.

I knew that. But I had an urge to check. My men use this place often. Sometimes the new ones need a place to stay while they wait for their first-job payout and I’ll send them here. Other times they just need a little safehouse to wait out some heat. They’re not supposed to stay in this room. Or McKay’s room, either. But I don’t check up on them, so it’s not like I would know if they decided to make themselves at home.

I don’t like coming here. It reminds me of my father. And I’m not saying I hated the man, but I’m not saying that I regret getting him killed either. It was just convenient to come here and clean up after last night’s job.

But the minute I strip off my filthy clothes and step into the too-narrow shower I just want to finish and leave. Leave it all behind me.

I felt that way when I took off with baby Magnolia four years ago too. I just needed some space. Not space from Old Home. I missed that house every moment of every day Maggie and I were on the run. But from McKay, and Donovan, and even Indie.

There are so many complicated strings tying us together I just needed some time to make sense of it.

I wash up quickly, truly taking a two-minute shower. And then I get out, wrap a towel around my waist, and sit on the edge of the bed. Listening for Andrik’s movements downstairs.

He’s quiet. Waiting me out.

So I listen for Maggie too. The house is old and even though the plumbing has been updated, it’s got a sound all of its own. You can hear the pipes when they are in use like they are living things.

My thoughts drift back to Indie, even though that’s not where I want them to be.

Every time I thought of her after Maggie and I took off, I burned inside. And then I would look at little Mags—her light blonde hair just like her mother’s, and her blue eyes that were only slightly like her mother’s—and I would get this urge to do something to Indie.

To get even with her.

Nothing about that feeling was good. I don’t hate Indie. I don’t even blame her. But every time I think back on that day and how Maggie was screaming in the truck on the way to the hospital… I lose my mind all over again.

Maggie was shrieking. And her mouth was bleeding. And my head was foggy and confused. And I didn’t know what I was doing, really. I was on autopilot. Donovan said, “Take her to the hospital.” So that’s what I did.

It was just… a very bad day and I won’t ever forget that fear I had. That Maggie would die. She could’ve too. Daphne berries are so toxic. We were just lucky that the Pearl Springs doctors knew their limitations and got us a Life Flight into New Orleans.

But if I was going to kill Indie, I’d have done it years ago. Because I knew. I knew she was sick. I knew she was never gonna be right in the head.

McKay loves her, though. She is the love of his life. And if I had hurt her—in any way—he and I would be over.

Not that we ever got anything started, but we’re not done yet. It could still happen.

Core McKay’s bedroom is one door away.

He has always been just one door away. Even back at Old Home we sleep separated by less than twenty feet.

So close. Just… never close enough.

Sitting here on the bed in the summer heat has both dried me off and made me sticky at the same time. I walk over to the switch for the AC unit and flick it on, then stand underneath and let it cool me off for a few moments.

The pipes tell me that Maggie is still in the shower. So there’s no real rush to get dressed. But I need to go down and talk to Andrik before I leave.

So I put on my church clothes. I don’t wear a suit. Not in the fucking summer. I wear a white linen long-sleeve button-down shirt that’s loose enough to look elegant, but not oversized. I leave the shirt unbuttoned as I pull my tan trousers and then run my fingers through my short blond hair to tame it up a little.

I don’t bother looking in the mirror, just head down the hallway, rapping on McKay’s door to let Maggie know she needs to hurry up as I pass, and then descend the stairs and find Andrik sitting at the marble counter in the kitchen. He’s dressed in some old ripped jeans with no shirt.

If he were working for me personally, I’d have to say something about that. But fuck it. If I didn’t have to dress like this right now, I sure as hell wouldn’t have a shirt on either.

Andrik Kalchik stands up and bows his head a little. Just enough. Never too much. I kinda like that about Andrik. “You need something today, boss?” His hair is so blond it appears white when it’s not buzzed so close to his head. And his eyes are so blue, they remind me of high-quality sterling silver—he looks Slavic. Hell, his name is the dead giveaway. But he has been practicing his American English for almost a decade now and he’s always proud when people ask him if he’s American. Especially after he tells them his name, which is so obviously not American.