My lungs fill with cool air as I try to calm the roaring in my ears and focus on the task at hand. It’s been a while since I’ve picked locks, and if Kohen’s impatient glances are any indication, I’m taking far too long. He glares at me whenever the door rattles as I try to depress the pins, but I shrug him off. There’s enough wind to make the noises unsuspicious, and frankly, I’d like to see him try to do a better job. At least I wasn’t the one who was about to break a window.
“Score,” I whisper when the telltaleclicksounds through the night.
Kohen helps me to my feet and then reaches into the large duffle bag. I survey our surroundings and keep an ear out for any movement inside when he pulls out a bat with nails hammered into it. Without a word, he pushes it into my hand, then whispers, “I recommend the knees, but the face works too.”
When thefuckdid he have time to organize this? I gape at him as he ushers me behind him and takes the lead. He sent two guys to the hospital for me? Blew up a building as a birthday present? Now he’s helping me murder a man and making me my very own weapon to do it?
And here I was, thinking that chivalry was dead.
Hugging the baseball bat to my chest, I can’t help but smile to myself as butterflies let loose in my stomach. It makes this wholesituation all the more perfect—aside from the pain that explodes through my knuckles when I grip the cold wood. Biting the inside of my cheek, I push aside all thoughts of the bruises and scrapes to concentrate on the next few minutes. I wonder what McGill will look like when he sees me with the bat. What will it look like when his bones cave beneath my new present?
The anticipation tastes so sweet, and the impending bloodshed so bitter—it’s an intoxicating combination I never thought I’d experience.
Either from arrogance or delusion, dread hasn’t wormed its way into my veins. Kohen’s presence is a safety net I never thought I’d be able to latch on to, and I’m greedy for it. If worse comes to worst, I won’t be alone in this. No one can say I forced him to do this. No one can accuse me of doing this alone. If I go down, he goes down with me.
I,however, hate that he’s pretty much like a bodyguard or hired gun. While having a partner is nice and all, I don’t love the reminder that my flesh limits my physical strength. It’s unnerving that I’m relying on him for my safety. What if red and blue lights start flashing, and the police raid the house? He might bolt and leave me behind. Or if McGill pulls out a gun? It’d be every man for himself.
The door creaks open, and we collectively wince, pausing to wait for a reaction. When nothing but music sounds through the house, Kohen creeps forward, holding a hand out to keep me behind him.
Jesus Christ, I need even more psychological help if that alone makes me blush.
The back door opens into the hallway shared with the main entrance. There’s a bathroom directly to our right, and boxes marked with illegible handwriting scattered everywhere. I focus on steadyingmy breathing and keeping my footsteps light on the old wooden floor that groans beneath our feet as we head toward the stairs that hug the wall shared with the living room. It smells vaguely of smoke. There’s nothing special about the space that screams “headmaster of a pompous school.” It’s the type of farmhouse I’d expect from a late-nineties movie—minus the excessive photos hanging off the floral wallpaper. So far, the nicest thing about this place is the fully stocked liquor cabinet in the hallway.
A haggard cough rumbles through the walls, followed by lip-smacking, and we still. But Kohen doesn’t move forward even though the coast is clear.
I tap my fingers against the bat. Can Kohen move any faster up these steps? It’s going to be Christmas by the time we get to McGill.
Poking Kohen in the back to urge him forward does nothing but make him give me the “Are you fucking kidding me?” look. So I drop the bat and let it swing around as I shuffle up the steps behind him. He keeps stopping every time the staircase makes a sound, but Old Man McGill doesn’t seem to notice.
We break onto the second floor, where yellow light floods the hall from an open door. More boxes and Bubble Wrap are littered around the place, and my fingers itch to take a thing or two… Okay, just one.
With all Kohen’s attention forward, I reach into the next box we pass and grab the first thing I wrap my fingers around. A… Oh, that’s stupid. I’ll still take it though.
He whips around, looks at me like I’m insane, and then shakes his head when I shove the used candle into my pocket, then continues on his slow, creeping pace.
Sighing, I push past him to the door into what looks like McGill’soffice and throw up a little in my mouth. The ripped, moss-green wingback office chair is reclined all the way back while his ankles are crossed on the desk. His blue, checkered shirt is unbuttoned to reveal his hairy beer gut that’s partially covered by a pale hand and an unlit cigar. A crystal tumbler is in his other hand, with only a couple sips of the amber liquid left.
Drinking on a school night too? We’re really setting good examples here.
A fireplace crackles against the wall I’m leaning against. Directly opposite it is a ratty couch with an equally ratty blanket. The empty cigar case on the desk is balancing on a piece of paper. Paperwork and bills are strewn across the room, a pile of wood lies haphazardly next to the fireplace, and more boxes are stacked in the corner labeledCourt Docs. A blue leaflet is open on the desk, and the familiar red logo staring back at me makes my mouth go dry.
Whitlock Investment Banking & Partners.
He… My jaw hardens. McGill isn’told friendswith my grandfather. McGill is his fucking client. It makes so much more sense. The shitty house, the bills all around the room, the court files. How much trouble is this man in? Has he sold his soul to my grandfather just to fix it?
The headmaster has a noose around his neck that’s controlled by Jonathan Whitlock Sr. Without my grandfather, how deep would McGill’s grave be with all the overdue bills he has lying around? My grandfather owns him.
The man who held me down and tortured me looks pathetic like this, with his guard down and completely vulnerable. Something twisted inside me curls with pleasure, knowing that no one will miss him when he’s gone. He has no more wives. There’s not asingle photo of any of his children anywhere. None of his kids want anything to do with him. How many different child supports must he be paying his ex-wives? Four?Six?
He’s the image of a man who’s lost everything. So I’ll be doing him a favor by finishing the job.
The smooth brass vibrates through the floors as the flute patters against my eardrum. “Is this Beethoven or Mozart?” I muse.
McGill’s eyes snap open. He scrambles in his seat, dropping the cigar and tumbler.
“Prokofiev,” Kohen grunts, shouldering past me through the doorway and sending me a death glare.
“Who?” I ask as McGill leaps onto his feet, sending the chair careening into the wall.
