Silver Bastard

“Night,” she said quietly. Then she stepped inside and closed the door.

God damn it.

Painter needed his ass kicked. Maybe I’d have time tomorrow after the raid, because this was fucking bullshit.

BECCA

Strangely enough, I actually slept really well that night.

I couldn’t chalk it up to peace of mind or feeling like I’d figured things out. Not at all. But the combination of alcohol, sex, and an adrenaline crash were enough to knock me out, which was a very good thing.

The next morning I woke up early enough to take a shower and sew for a while before heading out to school. Sewing had always been my therapy—now it calmed me down. Unfortunately it was way too early to talk to Danielle about the Puck situation. She’d still be asleep.

As for Puck, he was probably gone already. Would he come back safe from whatever the club was doing today? It was a valid question, which said something scary about our relationship. Suppose we stayed together, turned into a couple like Boonie and Darcy. Did I really want to know the details of his life?

How could I be with someone if I couldn’t face the reality of who he was?

I wrestled with all of these thoughts while carefully guiding a strip of bright red silk through the Singer. The tension was off, and I couldn’t quite find the sweet spot. The machine kept crumpling and twisting the delicate fabric.

Fucking metaphor for my life.

Ten minutes later I nailed it, right as the phone rang. I stopped the machine and stretched my neck as I walked over to answer it. That was the only thing I didn’t like about sewing—sometimes I got so caught up in what I was doing that I forgot to move.

I answered the phone and my world cracked wide open.

“Becca?”

Teeny. I hadn’t heard his voice in years, but just that one word—my name—threw me right back. My back hunched and I melted into myself. God, but I hated this man. Wait. No. I refused to let him do this to me. Never again.

“What the hell do you want?” Nice. I’d never had the nerve to talk to him like that before. I gave myself a mental shoulder pat.

“I have some bad news, honey,” he replied, his tone touched with what I suspected was supposed to be sorrow. It sounded smug, though. Smug and self-satisfied. I could almost see the expression to match the voice on his pointy, ferretlike face. “It’s about your mother.”

“What about her?” I asked, stiffening.

“She left me,” he said, his tone hardening. “And then she had an accident. Two nights ago. Drove right off the side of a cliff. She’d been drinking of course, and now she’s gone. It’s very sad.”

His words hit me like physical blows. No, knives. Knives slicing through my stomach, sending my intestines falling to the kitchen floor in a quivering, bleeding heap.

“You’re lying.”

“No, honey, I’m not lying. She’s been getting wilder, more irrational. Telling crazy stories, can you imagine? I tried to stop her but she just wouldn’t listen. You know how she is when she’s drunk. When the cops showed up at the house I didn’t believe them at first, either. I had to go identify her body yesterday morning. It’s definitely her.”

“Fuck you,” I growled. “She said you were beating her up. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Becca. She did it to herself.”

I hung up the phone, looking around my apartment. Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to believe him—could he be lying? Oh, God. Please. The phone rang again. Teeny.

“Don’t hang up,” he said quickly.

“You’re lying,” I said, my voice flat. “You’re lying like you always lie. What’s your game, Teeny?”

“You’re in denial, Becca. But don’t worry, I took a picture of her at the morgue, so that you could see for yourself. Perhaps you shouldn’t look—such a disturbing image . . . But you do what you think is right.”

Then he laughed and I knew it was true. She was really dead. Teeny was way too proud of himself and I knew in that instant he’d killed her.

Murdered her, just like she’d said he would.

And I let it happen.

A sudden vision of her came to me. I’d been five years old, maybe six. It was Halloween, and she dressed me up like a little princess. She was dressed like a queen, and we’d gone trick-or-treating for hours, followed by a sleepover in the living room.

I couldn’t remember the town or where we’d been living or anything like that . . . but I remembered the crowns we’d made together. She’d used wire to build the frames, then we’d covered them with tinfoil and glued on bright glitter.

She’d been the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s really dead, isn’t she?” I whispered, my voice small.

“Yes,” he replied. “She’s really dead. Here’s the reality, sweetheart—she was a bad wife and she got what she deserved.”

I threw the phone across the room.

That. Evil. Bastard.

It started ringing again. Not the headset I’d thrown, but the one in my bedroom. He was there, waiting for me like some sort of hideous troll determined to destroy everything I loved. I shouldn’t answer. I knew I shouldn’t answer.

“Hello,” I said, my voice dull.

“It’s really sad about your mom,” Teeny said. “I’m devastated, naturally. Losing your wife is a terrible thing. Fortunately I’ve met someone else already and now that she’s gone, it simplifies my life. That’s why I thought it would be best to put this final decision in your hands.”