Bella’s smile is oiled, the efficient glide of a ventriloquist’s dummy. It sets my teeth on edge. “Well, then the venery will get its last kiss after all.”
“There should be some kind of limit to this experiment, so it doesn’t drag out indefinitely,” Barbie insists.
“Six weeks should suffice.” The old woman scans the room, daring anyone to challenge her.
I see Myrtle’s face wash a ghastly pale shade, like curdled milk. “But… she just bloomed, just killed. It’s impossible to know when the cycle will—”
“Six weeks,” Bella reiterates, bringing a clawed hand down on the end of her armrest. “If she shares her mother’s precocious nature, that won’t be a problem.”
Rose snakes a hand down and squeezes Barbie’s shoulder. My nostrils flare against the heat building in the café.
Bella turns her gaze on Aunt Myrtle. “But if she doesn’t, Myrtle will call another conclave in order to see to herretirement.Won’t you, Myrtle?”
Her eyes find mine over a shoulder. They are soft, pitying. She turns to Aunt Bella, still stroking her mild-mannered hen. “You have my word.”
“And the cop,” Tina adds, her blouse so stiff it’s practically saluting.
The mention of Regis sends a spike of heat through my center, both passionate and protective. Surely, they can’t mean for me tokillhim? I recall Myrtle’s statement that they don’t kill innocents and allow my muscles to slacken a little. Regis is a complication, but he’s an innocent one.
“She needs to take care of him. Get him off her scent or Myrtle will lose this territory we all prize so much,” she finishes to my relief.
White is not her color,I think snobbishly, the designer in me never far from the surface. It bleeds the warmth from her skin like a tick on a dog.
“Agreed,” Rose adds. “She will have to clean up this mess she’s made to be permitted a place in the venery.”
Bella’s eyes narrow into thoughtful slits. Her mouth forms a languid, crinkly smile. “I’ve no doubt that she won’t let us down.” Her eyes sharpen on Myrtle’s. “Eitherof you.”
The room erupts into a chorus of exhales and sighs and sagging shoulders as the tension begins to dissipate. Several women rise from their chairs and shake Myrtle’s hand like she’s just won an important court case. Azalea turns to Barbie and begins discussing a hair mask she’s been applying to her split ends with some success. All around me, they are buzzing and stirring, ready to move on to the cocktails and refreshments now that the hard work is over.
I remain in my chair, baffled, a disgruntled energy building behind my sternum like a white-hot breastplate of rage. I have six weeks to learn everything it has taken these women twenty years or more to master; to find, stalk, and kill yet another man without leaving a trace, and to convince Sheriff Brooks that I had nothing to do with the one who collapsed in the café, that all is well in the tiny hamlet of Crow Lake, despite the two murderesses living under his nose. It seems designed for failure, a ploy of planned obsolescence. Rose, preposterous in those pink slacks, gloats in the corner with Barbie at her side, a winning smile painted across her doll-like features.
They are milling about as if I do not exist, as if I am not right here. A few begin to stack chairs while others wander toward the door. Scarlet is begging her mom for a crop top like Cousin Azalea’s. My own mother, the dead black sheep in a family of killers, got more airtime than me at this trial, which I have finally deduced is what a “conclave” actually is.
“Stop!” I screech, rising to my feet.
Around me, the room hushes. Everyone freezes and turns in my direction. Tongues still. Eyes widen. A few narrow with ire at my impudence.
Aunt Myrtle quickly steps over to me—more like between meand Great-Grandaunt Bella—placing a placating hand on my arm. “Piers, dear. It’s all settled. There’s no need to drag this out.”
But I shake her off, my eyes digging into the old matriarch’s. I will not be set aside, looked over in my own family as if I am some kind of apparition rather than a woman of flesh and blood, desire and aversion. I did that with Henry for the last two years and it nearly killed me. I will not do it again.
I glare at her, challenging, and find a note of admission, even respect, in hers.
Choking back doubts, I find my voice and use it. “I have something to say.”
16Normal
The confusion is written across their faces. The offense. I have done what even Aunt Myrtle didn’t dare to—ungraciously rejected their goodwill. Taken all their generosity and fisted it before dumping it back at their feet. But if I don’t say this, sayanything,I will hate myself for it.
They don’t all return to their seats, not for me. A few glide slowly back, lower themselves down as I take the floor, but many remain, sticking to their respective places like pins in a corkboard, glowering in my direction. Azalea and Barbie lean against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. Rose spins on her heel, staring at me as if I’ve just lifted my leg and pissed the rug. But the only one who really matters, I suppose, is Great-Great-Aunt Bella, and she has not budged from her original place. Her daughter Donna, who’d moved behind her to direct her chair, takes a step back.
“I know you’ve made your decision,” I begin, as a couple more find a seat. “And I’m grateful for your confidence in me, truly.” We all knowconfidenceis the last thing they have in me, but I’d rather not stomp on the hive after I’ve already angered the bees.
“Don’t confuse charity with confidence,” Rose interrupts, her lips pinched.
I swallow, ignoring her words. “But…” My eyes dart to Azalea, who is slowly shaking her head. I quickly look away. “What if I don’t want it?”
Donna’s brow creases. “Don’t want what, dear?”
