COTTON
November 22
Dear Shiloh,
I’m sorry for dropping that shit on you the other day. At least I haven’t actually let you read this yet, right? I can’t. You’d be in danger, too, and God knows you’ve had enough of that to last you a lifetime.
I can hear you now. Figuratively speaking, you haven’t shut up since I sent that last message. You’re vibrating with rage, and you’re ugly crying—because we both know you don’t cry pretty, lol—and you’re determined: you will get justice for your girl.
And you’re so, so fucking sorry that it happened.
I know, chickadee. And I love you for it.
But I need you to let it go.
The day after The Incident (that’s what I’ve been calling it), there was a knock on my door. This was before I went to see Michael. I hadn’t moved from where I’d dropped on my bed all day…had even called in a sick day because I knew the bruises on my face and neck wouldn’t hide beneath concealer. I was in the tee shirt I had slept in and looked like I’d been on the bad end of a bar fight. The last thing I wanted to do was answer the door.
So, I didn’t. I ignored it, buried my head under my pillow and did my best to disappear.
The door opened a minute later, and I heard footsteps in my apartment. I grabbed my cellphone off the table beside me and tucked it just under the edge of the blanket, and then I picked up my pistol and waited. I listened as they walked around, their voices low and unfamiliar. Then two men entered my bedroom.
Shy, one was General Kittredge, I shit you not. He looked at the gun I was holding and asked if I had a permit for that, and I cannot even describe how difficult it was to hold my tongue. He strolled into my home, and asked the half-naked woman sitting terrified in her bed if she had a permit for her weapon.
Yes, I had a fucking permit.
He sat down at the foot of the bed and asked me, very polite-like, if I wouldn’t mind putting it away. I had to laugh at that. “How about I hold on to it, and as long as you don’t touch me, you won’t have to worry about it,” I think is what I said. Something like, anyway.
He smiled, this smarmy, douche-nozzle smile. All things considered, I understand. Then he proceeded to inform me that although he was very sorry for the recent misunderstanding—misunder-fucking-standing!—he couldn’t allow any breath of scandal involving his son to become public.
His son. Justin is his son.
I said the right things. I didn’t have any intention of telling anyone. I just wanted Justin to leave me alone. No one would believe me anyway. He agreed, and said that was the only reason I was still alive.
Then he offered me a cushy job in D.C. that I could leave for after Christmas. Or maybe January, at the latest. It would be several months yet before my four years of active duty were finished, but he was pretty certain he could pull a few strings.
It wasn’t so much an offer as it was a directive. He wanted me gone. He wanted my silence. He wanted me watched, and this job was a means to an end to accomplish all of those things. And cowardly though it was, I was fine with that. I wanted to get away, put everything behind me.
But that was before Michael died.
LATER THAT SAME DAY,IWATCHEDBRODIE STOMP DOWN THE STEPS TO THE BASEMENT WITH MIXED FEELINGS.He held his cards close to his vest, and that scared me. I was usually good at reading people, but he was closed off, even while he asked questions and answered them and chatted like we were old friends. Brodie Gallagher was a puzzle. I had no clue who he was, no idea what motivated him, and was no closer to figuring out if he planned on killing me today than I had been the first time I saw him.
Which made it really damn difficult to decide whether or not I should put my trust in him. I wasn’t sure it mattered. I could tell him what Justin had done, and how his father had reacted, but in the end would it give him a reason to help me, or give him ammunition against me?
It wasn’t a stretch to think that the Irish mob was connected in some way to the general. It was the only thing that made sense. After all, who else would want to kill me? Sure, I tended to be a little mouthy, but to my knowledge I hadn’t pissed anybody off recently. The only people who might see me as a threat and want to get rid of me were Justin and his father.
The real question became, then, whether Brodie would fall on my side or their side. Who was the general to the Irish mob? At present, Brodie had no idea who had contracted my hit. When he learned it was Kittredge, how would that knowledge influence his decision?
I shivered and pulled my feet under me on the couch. I was helpless here if he decided I had to die.
My feelings regarding this were so freaking confusing. Why did I even care? Maybe it was simply a biological response to the threat of death. A creature that didn’t have the same conflicting thoughts about life and death I possessed would react in predictable ways to protect themselves.
The stamp of Brodie’s shoes sounded again on the stairs and I watched as he looked immediately for me. Inwardly I laughed. I should have messed with him and hid. Clearly, he had forgotten he wanted to keep me in his sights.
“Treadmill’s ready,” he said brusquely. His eyes drifted to my toes, peeking from where I had my knees pulled up. “Shite. I’ll have to get you some proper shoes.”
My heart lifted. Shoes would be good, even sneakers.
“There’s also one of those flex machines—”
