No one knew about my list. I made sure of it. It was a release I needed, and a plea to any higher power who would listen because, up until last year, no one ever did. But then, one by one, the men who hurt me started to fall—and I think I’m supposed to believe that this man standing in a towel in front of me is the reason they did.
I can’t. I justcan’t.
And that’s when I whisper, “This is insane.”
Patrick turns fully again, towel still secure, shoulders squared. He looks like a man built for absolute certainty. I might not believe it, but confronted with that expression on his face and the reminder of the poinsettia on his back, I think he’s going to make me.
“Not insane,” he corrects. “Precise.”
I don’t know if I feel flattered or revolted.
Then again, maybe I’m thinking too highly ofmyself. The world sure as fuck doesn’t revolve around Noelle Halliday, and I must be jumping to conclusions. To think that a man I never met—gangster with a gun or not—would go out of his way to avenge me… this might be nuts, but so am I.
Still, I have to ask. Just like when it came to my own words being repeated back to me, I have toknow.
“Why does the poinsettia only have five leaves?”
His eyes hold mine, a small, encouraging smile tugging on his lips. “Think, Noelle. Trust me. You’re a smart girl. I know you are. And you… you already know the answer to that. I told you. No more pretending. And the sooner you understand the lengths I’ve gone for you already, the sooner you’ll understand that this… this is just the beginning.”
It sounds like a promise, though my frantic brain only interprets it as a threat. At the same time, my mind flashes back to my phone screen yesterday morning. To the news article I couldn’t focus on. To the wordaccidentaland the way it just didn’t fit.
Five names on my list.
Five men who hurt me.
Five deaths to avenge me.
Five red leaves on a mafia man’s back.
My breath catches. I swallow, trying again, and my voice is barely audible as I gasp out, “No.”
“Oh, Starling,” he murmurs, like he’s almost fond of my denial. “Yes.”
My knees feel unsteady. I almost want to drop, but I’m stronger than that. I’ve worked so goddamn hard to be stronger than that. And that’s why, as Patrick waits for me to tell him what I already figured out, I finally find it in me to straighten up and dash out the bathroom door.
I don’t think. With a half-naked Dragonfly telling me, without saying so, that he’s the reason the five men who hurt me are dead, my brain goes offline. What makes it worse is that I’m not sure what affects me more: his aforementioned half-naked state, the fact that some stranger I never metkilledfor me and marked the occasion in ink on his back, or that he somehow found his way to the same chalet as me so that he could let me know.
It’s all of it, plus that knowing smirk that tells me that Patrick—and I’ll call him Patrick until I can prove that’s another lie—expects me to bepleasedthat he murdered for me. Maybe if I was part of his mafia instead of a chick with a communications degree and a trauma-filled backstory, I’d be like, gee, thanks. It’s bad enough that my trauma has me kind of wanting to do that, but the way he was looking at me now… the way it seemed like he expects something frommenow… yeah. I don’t think, but I do run.
The bathroom is two doors down from my borrowed bedroom. I fly past the one I stupidly gave to Patrick before throwing myself into mine. I slam thedoor, locking it before I can even check to see if he came after me. I’d like to think he wouldn’t. I want to think that this is, like I’ve thought all along, one big, fucking coincidence.
But, nope. As panic gives way to determination, all I’m thinking about now is getting the hell out of here.
Keys. I need my keys.
Fuck snow chains on my tires. Screw the fact that he parked behind me. I’ll slam into his car until I can get my ride on the path winding down the mountain. I don’t know if the accumulation has frozen or if I can plow my way through the powder, but when the alternative is staying in this chalet with a killer… with aliar… I’ll do what I have to.
Only one problem. I tear through my room, searching for my purse. At first, I thought I missed it because I was too spooked to focus. Uh-uh. I left my bag on top of the dresser. My wallet was in there, so was my chapstick… and my keys. It’s gone, though. All of it. I don’t have any money. No cash. No credit cards. My keys are missing, and I don’t understand it. It should all be right here—only itisn’t.
I suck in a breath that makes my lungs ache. Fine. Okay. I still have my phone. I left it downstairs. So maybe there’s no service in the chalet. At this point, I’m ready to grab it, bolt out into the night, and keep going until I get a signal so I can call for help.
Not the cops. Patrick wasn’t wrong when he saidthat I don’t know how much of the SPD is bought by the local crime syndicates. Assuming this town is the same, I don’t want them to be involved. I just want to be safe, and something tells me that handing a Dragonfly over to law enforcement would be a huuuuge mistake.
Besides, as terrified as I am, if Patrick reallydidtake out those guys one by one… well, I do owe him, don’t I? I won’t snitch, but that doesn’t mean I’m sticking around.
With my heart in my throat, I unlock the bedroom door. I’m prepared to slam it shut and throw my weight against it if Patrick is waiting out in the hall. It takes me a second to recognize that it’s empty, and that means the coast is clear. As soon as it does, Iyipunder my breath, and scurry for the stairs.
I know I left my phone on the four-seater table in the kitchen. After I turned off the fireplace, I placed it down so I could take the last swig from my champagne glass for liquid courage. I never picked it up again, but as I dash into the kitchen, all I see are two glasses: one empty, one full.
