“Goddamnit,” I huff.
Hawkeye whines at the back door, pawing against the glass. I let him inside, and he immediately bolts past me to the basement.
Shit. Tristan. What had he heard?
As I open the door, Tristan scoops Hawkeye up into his arms and walks out. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice heavy with concern as he looks me up and down.
It sounds genuine, but since when does anyone genuinely concern themselves with pathetic Daphne Fox—the spoiled nepo baby no one loves or wants?
Tears burn the backs of my eyes and threaten to fall. “No. Not even a little.”
Tristan lowers a now-cheery Hawkeye to the floor. “Your basement door’s as good as mine. I could barely hear you, so I wasn’t sure if I should come out or not. Daphne, what?—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Daph, I?—”
“Leave, Tristan.” I snap at him, and it scares me how much my voice sounds like my mother’s when I’m angry, like some sick hereditary joke.
Tristan nods. “Alright. I’m only a phone call away, Princess.” He wrings his gloved hands, like there’s more he wants to say.
But he steps past me, retrieves his laptop, and packs itaway into his backpack. The smoky, musky smell of his cologne lingers, and I nearly call him back to me.
He pulls out his phone and taps a few buttons. “Sorry, Daph, but could you do something for me?”
God, what could he possibly ask of me right now?
“When I go into the garage, count to thirty, and press the button to open the garage door. Count to thirty again, then close it.”
“Why?”
“Because I only thought about getting to you as fast as possible last night. I didn’t think about getting back home. I can’t drive around a fancy neighborhood in broad daylight with a mask, can I?”
That stupid mask. His stupid disguises. Stupid Tristan and his stupid broken promises.
“Fine.” That’s all I manage to say before he disappears into the garage. I follow his instructions as the first tears fall.
Damnit, why does he get to show everyone nearby what he looks like, but I still don’t get to see him?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRISTAN
Daphne’s been dodging me.I’ve driven past her house every day and seen her filming in her studio, or watching Bridgerton on her couch with our fur baby cuddled up at her feet.
Something shifted since her mother visited, and damn the heavy doors in the fancy house for being nearly soundproof. Scattered words and Brent’s name were all I could make out. None of it made sense, but judging from Brent being part of the conversation, it was bad.
So bad, Daphne won’t even pick up the phone.
I think Furt’s my next victim. I owe it to Daphne to eventually get around to killing Brent, but the thought of being her hitman still doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe she’ll change her mind?
It’s been a few weeks since McArthur’s death, and the bill was passed in the House of Representatives last Tuesday. Next stop is the Senate floor. Furt’s going to be working non-stop to whip the votes for this bill—all the more reason for him to be next on my list.
It’s time to send the Senate a message. Honestly, it’s atoss-up between Furt, or the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions.
But Daphne’s comment about Furt and his pedo preferences tips the scales in his favor.
My pen slips across a sheet of paper as I sketch out my plans for his demise, when Merlin’s rumbling bark breaks my concentration. My eyes snap over to one of the shelter’s oldest members. Merlin’s a senior mutt with a few breeds mixed into him. Some pitbull. A dash of bulldog. I think a bit of husky, judging by his bark and his tendency to howl for no goddamn reason. He likes hearing himself talk.
