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Who else but a social parasite concerned only with her self-image, and never the well-being of her kids, to throw money at an organization in an attempt to gain power and notoriety among the inner circles of the underground?
And because trafficking is almost always, inexplicably, tied to politics, who fucking else but a senator’s wife to fund the racket?
It makes sense that she disappeared, the fear of being found out driving her away. Murphy was dead, and then her husband, and I never stopped ticking off the boxes. Never stopped hunting her inferiors, grinding information from their bones and stringing them up at my cottage like Christmas lights.
A nice little show for the lives lost due to the trade. Something for them to enjoy in the afterlife, if it exists.
My gift to them.
My apology.
Gia swears under his breath as Lynn says something to Juliet; the two pull away from the crowd, starting around the side of the building, even as Caroline alerts her husband and he follows.
The strain in Juliet’s eyes, the slope of her shoulders, tells me everything I need to know.
This woman has hurt countless others, ruined lives and destroyed futures, butthisone was the first. Juliet was her initial victim; she must’ve loved how it tasted. The bittersweet victory that comes from stealing someone’s soul, from trying to break them beyond repair.
Heat flares in my cheeks as I shove back from the desk, nearly toppling the monitor as I jump to my feet, swiping the flash drive from the wood. My father swallows, gesturing to his shoulder, which isstillhealing. “Son, I—”
I hold my hand up, cutting him off. The screen switches to the side of the building, where Juliet stands with her mother. It only takes a second for me to recognize the way her mother reaches into her purse, pulling out a gun that was in my face just weeks ago, before I’m turning on my heel and bolting out the door.
Chapter 26
Juliet
“Well, Mom, I have to say. This is a first for me.”
She shuffles me down the concrete steps to the church basement, the mouth of her gun digging into my lower back; when she heard footsteps and Elia’s familiar growl, she’d dragged me even further around the building, shoving me along quickly. Dropping a key into my palm, she gestures toward the large metal door. “Open it.”
“Are we allowed to be down here?” I ask, my normal defense mechanisms struggling to take root. Despite my reckless behavior over the years, I’ve never actuallyfaceddeath, and doing so now at the hands of the woman who brought me into this world feels too surreal to even deal with.
“Shut up, Juliet.”
I slide the key into the lock, a large, gaudy hunk of metal that I’m pretty sure most places don’t even use anymore, and turn it hard; it unlatches, and my mother reaches over me to push the door open and shove me inside.
We’re thrust into a damp darkness when she slams the door closed, refastening the lock. My hands shake, and for a moment, I’m grateful for the invisibility I’ve spent my whole life lamenting. At least she can’t see how she’s affecting me.
My relief is short-lived, however, when she flips on an overhead switch, revealing the disgusting dungeon she’s led me into. Plastered on the far wall are hundreds—maybe even thousands—of photographs and news article clippings; some have my face, my body at various venues around town. My own bedroom.
Other pictures are of Caroline and Elia, the kids, Kieran and his entire family. His cottage on Lake Koselomal, inside The Bar where I was assaulted.
Flickering my gaze over each one, I get to the end of the familiar scope of King’s Trace and the devils I know, coming face-to-face with ones that have gone undiscovered. Malnourished bodies trapped in metal cages, girls of varying ages and sizes, dressed in burlap sacks or nothing at all, and pressed into each cell like sardines.
Dead bodies in various stages of decomposition.
They stare back at the camera, alive and not, cheeks gaunt and eyes haunted, an image I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to erase.
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat as I look at the mass burials; mounds of abused flesh, set on fire and photographed in their last moments of existence. I cross my hands over my abdomen and press my sweaty, shaky palms inward, trying to keep the vomit at bay.
“What the hell is this?”
Chuckling, my mother makes her way over to a makeshift table; a large slab of wood straddling two sawhorses, sheets of paper and coffee mugs and flash drives strewn about. She keeps the pistol pointed at me even as she moves items around with her free hand, as if this isn’t the first time she’s ever waved a gun around.
Which is news to me, because growing up, my mother loathed anything that even resembled a weapon. We weren’t permitted to have foam swords or water guns, crossbows or darts. Nothing with the potential for harm.
Interesting that she never considered the mind to be the most deadly asset, considering how hers nearly ruined Caroline and me.
“What’s it look like, darling? Come on, you got into college just fine, I know you’re not as dumb as your father always claimed you to be.” She flops into a black chair with rollers on the bottom, clutching a USB drive in her free hand and gesturing around the basement with the other. “I told you I had an in with Father O’Leary.”
