Sparrow

I ran all the way back to the penthouse, trying to tell myself that I wasn’t scared, and merely pissed off. That Brock had good intentions, and I was just too drunk on Troy to realize that he was trying to help.

Back at home, I cracked open a bottle of something vintage and placed two glasses of wine near the white wool carpet by the fireplace downstairs. I polished off two drinks just to take the edge off the Brock encounter—the guy was radiating seriously stalker vibes. Then I went into the bathroom upstairs, the one I shared with Troy, to comb my hair and wash off the last of my day at Rouge Bis.

It saddened me that I put up with my husband’s secrets. Saddened me because I was no longer able to deny the truth. I was desperately in love with my husband.

Every day he took up more space in my heart. With every moment, it became a bit more difficult to breathe when he wasn’t around. My love for Troy Brennan wasn’t romantic or sweet—it was violent and needy. It was a cancer, spreading inside my body, multiplying into hundreds and thousands of new cells with every beat of my heart. No chemotherapy, no miracle cure. Every heartbeat, I slipped a little more. Drowned a little deeper. Fell a little further into the bottomless ocean of feelings for him.

I heard the bedroom door slamming shut and dropped my head back, closing my eyes just so I wouldn’t have to see myself in the mirror. Facing yourself was hard when you’d given up yourself for someone else.

“Is it possible to feel your heart breaking, even when you’re falling in love?”

I brushed my long hair. Yes. It was. Here I was, falling in love, and getting my heart broken at the very same time. A knock on the bathroom door reminded me of the first time we talked, on our wedding day. How much had changed since then. Yet, some things remained the same.

“You better not be decent. I’m coming in.”

He opened the door, filling its frame with his impossible size. His azure blues scanned me intently. I dropped my gaze to his hands. They looked busted, his skin peeling. He smelled of bleach and gasoline. I shook my head.

“I can’t believe you,” I said quietly.

“It’s not what you think.” He threw a crooked grin my way. “I didn’t forget the Chinese. It’s downstairs.”

I pointed at his hand. “What the hell have you done now?”

His gaze became hooded, guarded, and his shoulders tensed. Still, I didn’t regret bringing this up. If he was going around killing people like life was a Quentin Tarantino movie, I needed to know.

He looked down to his knuckles, frowning. This was not him. He was always good at covering his tracks. It was almost like he wanted me to find out, consciously or not.

“Troy…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m done looking past what you do. Tell me.”

“Sparrow, really.” He tried to stroke my arm.

I took a step back. “Now, Troy.”

His smile vanished. “I’m going to go ahead and be really honest about one thing, but beware. It’s not pretty, and I take betrayal very seriously, so I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut.”

I looked up at him as his chest bumped into my body. He was so close, I was able to smell his delicious sweat and everything else he carried with him that day in the mix of bleach and gasoline.

I nodded. “I won’t betray you.”

“I know.” His tone was harsh all of a sudden. “Remember, you’ve been pushing for some kind of truth. So here’s the thing I want you to know. I’m not a hitman. I don’t kill people for a living. Never been paid to finish someone off, but…” He raised his hand, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I did kill Billy. And I killed Father McGregor, too. Both deaths were ugly, but so was what they did.”

My knees buckled, and my stomach lurched, but it wasn’t from fear. I was elated. He had confided in me. He was cracking. My monster, my capturer, my corrupter. My lover.

“What did they do to deserve this?” I croaked, watching his finger playing with my strand of red hair.

“Billy killed my dad, a cold-hearted murder for money. McGregor told him where and when to find him, knowing his intentions. They took away the only thing I cared about.” His eyes dilated as he watched his index finger playing with my hair, his voice lost in thought. “They had to pay for their sins.”

“And you’re Boston’s God,” I finished softly.

I wanted to cry but was too stunned to do something so natural and instinctive. I shouldn’t have been surprised—the gossip warned about my husband all along—but I was. How did he live with the fact that he’d taken not one, but two lives? Then again, no one ever murdered my parent.

“Does it scare you, little lovebird?" he breathed into my ear, his huge body engulfing my small one, “To know that I’m capable of these things? I’m still on the lookout for the person who sent them to kill my dad, you know. I’m not done with my list.”

Troy let go of my hair, taking a small, yellow slip of paper out of his pocket, pressing it to my chest. I plucked it out of his hand and read it. Crupti and McGregor’s names were struck through. He didn’t know who the third person was. There was a question mark.

I dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Am I scared? No,” I said serenely. “Because I know you would never hurt me. Am I happy about what you’ve done? I’m disappointed. Playing God is immoral. Not to mention dangerous.”