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Gloria’s face falls. “She’s upstairs.”
“Already?” It’s too early for that. My mother likes to be downstairs until seven at the earliest in case she has visitors. “Is she sick?”
A quick glance to either side of the foyer. I don’t see any of the other staff, but Gloria drops her voice. “We don’t know. She sent word that she had a headache this morning and hasn’t been down all day. Your father has been taking her trays.”
I don’t like it. My mother has never been the kind of person who likes to lie around in bed. She’s never complained of headaches.
All my instincts say that this is about my father.
He doesn’t have Lydia and Catherine to use against me anymore. By now, he knows that Gabriel didn’t die, and probably suspects that power could be shifting within the consortium.
He’s going to use the only bargaining chip he has left: his wife.
Which also means that he knows I’ll be coming after him at the first chance I get, not someone else. My mom wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
I put my arms around Gloria in a quick hug. “Get everyone out, and safe.”
Before I can pull away, she hugs me back. “Get yourself out, too, Elise.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She rushes off, her shoes clicking on the marble floor, and I take the stairs at what my mother would call a stately pace.
I know where my dad will be waiting.
Not in his office. Not in the main bedroom.
Mybedroom.
The door is open several inches, and it opens under my palm with a familiarswishacross the carpet.
My former bedroom is mostly how I left it. I took the photos down from the Pinterest-inspired clothesline on the wall and moved it to my apartment, along with the clothesline. My bed is still the same. The armchair in the corner of the room.
Dad sits in the armchair, just like he used to, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. A black tin waits on the table nearby.
Business games were for his office, or the sitting room. My bedroom was for reading. I hear the smooth turn of the pages, though he doesn’t have a book in his hands. I hear his reading voice, low and even and warm. For a while, it was the only time during the day I could read fiction. Or—listen to it, I guess. I loved those stories.
I could almost believe that’s what he wants now, if it weren’t for my mom on the bed.
She’s curled up on her side, tucked into the covers. Only she’s not asleep. Her eyes move slowly around the room, glassy and unfocused. They land on me for a few seconds. Her face doesn’t change at all.
My father smiles, shifting so both his feet are planted. He rests his palms on the arms of the chair.
“You’re predictable, Elise.” He uses his reading voice. It cuts a wedge out of my heart. “That’s your downfall.”
“No. You’re predictable, asshole.”
I reach into the purse, draw the pistol, and aim it at his chest.
This has always been coming for me, hasn’t it? I knew it when I was six years old. Even then, I understood what had to happen to monsters. I’ve been hiding from that truth ever since.
It felt impossible to face it. I spent so many nights lying in that bed and dreading the next day. On the worst of them, I’d try to angle my body so the blankets didn’t press on the wounds from the caning and think of ways I could kill my dad.
I never could, because that would make me a killer, too. That would make me a monster. And I understood what had to happen to monsters.
Except I alreadywasa killer. I’d caused people to die. I was already just like him. I’ll always be just like him.
I’ll be a monster for Gabriel.
