Page 133 of The Dearly Departed

He pursed his lips, tipping his head to the side and considering me as he crossed his arms over his chest.

I started to relax, started to believe he'd release them from wherever they were being held, but then he shook his head.

"Nah," he replied. "I have use for them."

"You're a fucking son of a bitch—you know that?" I spit at him, my rage stealing the ability to take a deep breath. "You broke your fucking promise. What the fuck is stopping me from breaking mine?"

"Because I will kill them all," he said in an eerie calm. "All of these people you want to save and help, I will squash them all like the little insects they are and make you fucking watch. Is that what you want?"

Oh God. I held a hand to my forehead and turned to face the window. I wanted to scream, to break everything in this house.

How the fuck was I supposed to save anyone, accomplish anything, when I had Gerald Crowley breathing down my fucking throat?

All of this will be for nothing.

Unless I end him before he ends me, I thought, staring out the window toward the bluff.

I’ll burn this whole fucking house down with him in it.

"Fine,” I muttered. “But you won’t hurt them anymore. You hurt them, and I will hurt you.”

"Hmm … okay, I can agree to that. Come!" He clapped his hands, and I turned to watch as he began to head back out the door. "Let's go let them down. Gotta make it quick though. I have a wedding reception to get to, and I paid way too much to miss the filet mignon."

***

The descent to the basement felt like a long one with the barrel of a handgun pressed to the middle of my back. One of Gerald's gorillas walked behind me at Gerald's insistence, and I wondered if he’d been the one to knock me out at the shore.

He must’ve had help, I thought. He’s too short to have gotten me here by himself.

We walked from Gerald’s office, down the upstairs hallway, to the winding staircase. By the time we were through the sitting room where Analise had stitched up my leg, and halfway across the library, I sighed noisily, and Gerald stopped to glance over his shoulder.

"Got something on your mind, son?"

"Oh, nothing important," I answered, boredom in my tone. "Just wondering where you do your laundry."

He tipped his head curiously. "Why's that?"

"Well, if your machines are in the basement, I can't imagine what a nightmare that would be on your old bones," I said. "No wonder you need me to do your dirty work. Your joints and back are probably fucked."

His curiosity was replaced with irritation. "We have a housekeeper to do the laundry."

I barked an obnoxious laugh and looked behind me at the unamused gunman. "Can you believe this guy? Can't do anything for himself."

Gerald grumbled and began to move again. The gunman nudged me with the gun.

"Let's go, Reaper," he encouraged quietly.

I did as he’d said, but as I followed Gerald, I raised a brow and asked, "Reaper?"

"That's what all my men have been calling you," Gerald said, a hint of pride in his tone. "They say you're brutal, quick, and clean. No hesitation whatsoever, like the Grim Reaper. And then, of course, there’s the hearse."

The inquisition dropped from my face as a sickening ache began in my stomach.

They admired me.

I'd earned myself a nickname, which I supposed was only natural when they had nothing else to call me. For years, I'd maintained my anonymity, but they were bound to call me something. Just like Analise had reverted to calling me by a name she’d chosen.

I just wasn't sure that Reaper was the name I would've hoped for.