Chapter 1
Damien
Twenty-Five Years Ago
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It’s the only sound in the room, steady and patient, while I watch the man tied to the chair. The skin from his hands is gone, peeled away in ribbons.
Skin has three layers: hypodermis, dermis, epidermis.
She shifts in the corner of the room, irritation rolling off her in waves. The cut wasn't deep enough—too shallow, too careful—and I'll pay for that mercy later. But for now, her full attention is fixed on the man who wronged her. Whatever he did, however he crossed her, it was enough to earn this.
My mother is many things. Patient has never been one of them.
"Constantin, where are the photos?"
I glance at the man tied to the chair. Forty, maybe older. His name is Constantin. Not that it matters. There's nothing inhis eyes. No fear. No recognition. Just empty defiance, which makes me wonder why we're wasting time. She's not stupid. She already knows he won't talk.
She crosses one long leg over the other and exhales slowly through her nose. That look. I know that look. Frustration simmering beneath a perfectly composed surface. Never good when she gets like this.
Her ash-blonde hair falls in perfect waves as she leans toward the black bag beside her chair. When her hand emerges, she's holding a small silver pistol, casual, like she's retrieving a lipstick.
Two seconds. That's all it takes. The crack of the shot splits the silence, followed by the dull thud of metal meeting flesh. Constantin's body jerks once then goes still.
She stands, already bored, and heads toward the door without a backward glance. I stay frozen in place. I don't move. I'm not allowed to leave until she says I can.
Without turning, she tosses the order over her shoulder.
“Clean this up, sweetheart. I’ll see you at home.”
I don't answer. I never do. But inside, I'm screaming. I hate when she does this. I hate when she makes me walk the two and a half miles back to the house after leaving me here to scrub the blood out of the floorboards alone.
At nine years old, most boys are watching baseball with their dads or worrying about whether they did their homework.
Me?
I can tell you twenty different types of blades and exactly which one will give you the cleanest cut.
As I scrub, the wood slowly drinks in what’s left of Constantin’s blood. I force myself to breathe. In. Out.
Don’t let the anger out.That’s the rule.Don’t. Let. It. Out.
Too bad no one told me anger’s a sickness that, once it gets inside you, rots you from the inside out.
Too bad.
Chapter 2
Roxy
Nineteen years ago
“Have you looked at yourself? What the hell is with all that glitter?”
