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I make a derisive sound.
“Please. I’ve paid you so much it’s probably covered whatever he stole, and then some.” I’m playing dumb. I can’t let her know I have that gold, but now I’ve got an even better idea where it came from.
Thanks, Dad.
Thanks for getting me into this clown show.
“Do you just get off on this? Shaking people down?” I hiss.
I’m expecting an insult.
Not the sudden sharp sting smacking against the back of my head—a backhanded blow so fierce it whips my head to one side, slapping my cheek and temple against the wall hard enough to make me cry out.
“Shut up—shut up! I’m sick of you throwing pennies, Flissy-wissy-piss-itee, and you fucking know it.” It’s almost more chilling when she finds a new way to mangle my name in her hideous syrupy voice. “I want what Morgan Randall took. What that good-for-nothing sack of chickenshit stole from me, and since you can’t give me back my daddy...”
Suddenly the knife slips from my throat.
Now it’s against the small of my back, replacing her elbow.
One push, and she could sever my spine.
If I don’t bleed out, I’ll be paralyzed for life.
I don’t dare move, every inch of me trembling.
“...since you can’t bring back daddy, I want my fucking money!” she finishes.
I breathe in shallow gasps, struggling to pull my panicked thoughts together.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper. “H-how did my father take yours away?”
“Like you don’t know. Like you don’t know that lousy rat killed him!” What’s even worse is the real emotion in her voice. Loss, pain, sorrow, years of rage marinating in this stew of poison vengeance. “Who do you think was with him the night Morgan crashed that plane? Huh, Felicity? Only, my daddy never came back. I don’t even know where your prick of a father hid his body.” Then she lets out a giggle, a manic titter wild with raw evil. “But y’know, I remember where I left his.”
I go cold from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes.
Grim truth bitch-slaps me harder than she ever could, nearly knocking me flat.
Her.
Of course, it was her.
Those fingerprints on the car were hers.
Paisley Lockwood murdered my father in revenge when she was just a kid, because she thinks he killed hers.
What’s worse is that she may not be wrong.
I swallow thickly, my throat knotted.
“...you...what did you do to him?”
“Exactly what I said I would.” The point of the blade twirls slowly, and I suck in a breath as I feel the first tiny pinprick against my skin, biting like a needle through my dress. “Your father was a loser. Good for nothing druggie. Which is why I hate how damned good he was at keeping his mouth shut. I told him if he didn’t talk, he’d be riding that white pony until his poor ol’ ticker gave out.” The malicious grin I see from the corner of my eye looks like death. “He lasted a long time. I’ll give him that. Old man had a hell of a tolerance. Once a junkie, eh?”
My nostrils flare.
I’ve always told myself I don’t miss my dad.
That I only resented him, hated how he treated us, never really cared for his loss when the man I missed—the man who took me fishing, the man who smiled at me and called me Little Bee with his hand resting on top of my head—died long before they found that body.
The white-hot fury and sorrow and rage I feel at those words stuns me to my core.
I’ve been lying to myself all this time.
And I’ve never hated another human being more than I abhor Paisley Lockwood in this moment, where everything turns blood red.
My eyes go hot. My chest constricts. My blood boils against her stupid switchblade.
“You monster,” I gasp out, half a sob, half a snarl, and slowly start to creep one hand to brace against the wall for leverage. “You bitch.”
“Ah-ah-ahh, Fe-lic-i-tee,” she peals out, nasty and rotten and childish as ever. The knife rakes my skin, a final warning, a kiss of pain. “I’ve been far too generous with you and your shit-swilling, swindling family. But keep on pushing me, girl, and my generosity will run right ou—”
I don’t know what hits me first.
The realization that she’s pulling back to do me some serious bodily harm, intending to leave a mark I won’t forget.
Or the sound of the loud knock at the door, someone rapping hard and firm in a familiar cadence that can only be one person.
Alaska.
Oh, shit.
16
Gilded Cage (Alaska)
I hate feeling paranoid.
It’s taken me years to distinguish gut sense from blind suspicion, but I’ve had a hell of a lot of practice honing that skill.
It started to sink in on the drive over, and I had a mighty bad feeling something wasn’t quite right inside Felicity’s house.
