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He downs the remaining alcohol, slams the crystal on the table, and shakes his head, answering, "Your toothbrush. Your hairbrush. Hell, it's not that hard to get a DNA test. I should have done it when you were born and kicked that drunk bitch to the curb." His gaze shifts to my mother, and more hate blazes over him.
I knew they had issues, but I didn't realize it was to this level.
He killed her.
Noah did.
But my father's okay with it.
He wants to kill me.
A lump grows in my throat. I swallow it, murmuring, "Shh," to King Madden.
He won't stop growling, baring his teeth, fighting to escape my grasp.
My father pins his eyes on him, shaking his head. "I'm two steps from shooting him."
More fear fills me. With the sternest voice I can manage, I command, "Quiet!"
King Madden's body relaxes a tad. He turns his head toward me. Confusion fills his face, and he softly whines.
Keep them talking.
I turn toward Noah and ask, "How could you kill her?"
He shrugs. "She's just another piece of ass. Last I heard, she wasn't mother of the year. So after everything she put you through, I'd think you wouldn't care."
"Well, I do," I insist.
Satisfaction fills his features. He replies, "Too late now, sunshine."
"We're wasting time," my father interjects.
Noah waves the gun in front of me, adding, "Agreed."
More dread washes over me. I blurt out, "How does killing me help you? I'm your client!"
A wild expression lights up his face. He answers, "You chose him over your family. Then you chose him over me. I give you opportunities, yet all you ever do is choose him. So now, it's time for me to cash in."
My voice cracks. "Cash in?"
He grins, making my stomach flip faster. He steps forward and announces, "A dead singer is sometimes worth more than a live one."
"That's not true!" I claim.
He sits next to me, and I move closer to the armrest.
He grabs my chin, digs his fingers into my skin, and forces me to face him. He studies me, and tears rush down my cheeks.
King Madden returns to growling and baring his teeth, but I have him positioned so he can barely move. If I release him, I'm sure he'll attack Noah, which will only worsen this situation.
Noah finally states, "With your fucked-up story, I think the movie will gross more than Selena's did."
My gut dives to the floor. I swallow hard.
Noah adds, "Your album sales will skyrocket. Any merchandise I can get out there will sell out. Yeah, I'll be able to milk your tragic life all the way to the bank."
"Speaking of the bank, it's time for you to do your job," my father claims.
