“Let her finish, Louisa. Love stories shouldn’t be rushed,” Mom adds, giving me a wink when I turn to look at her.
Saint—clearly having a moment of lucidity—decides to take the reins. “I was at my dad’s house a few months ago; she drove past when I was getting in the gate.”
Mom pokes my side, and I note that the last time I was nearby hers would have been the morning I killed Clarke. “All this time you’ve kept this quiet?”
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to mention it until we were sure, then you wouldn’t be disappointed.” The lie surprisingly rolls off my tongue with ease. Partly because it’s one of my hidden truths.
The events that led to Saint and I being together are far from anything she would approve of. If she knew her daughter was in fact a killer, she’d never look at me the same way again.
I don’t think my reasons would be enough to save her from that judgement.
A grating voice rams through the conversation, the hackles on my back instantly standing to attention. I don’t know if it’sthe revelation of it all, or if Barry’s voice has always felt like someone’s dragging a serrated knife along my spine.
“Ah look who it is, the sightseers. How are you doing, Saint?” Barry slaps both hands on Saint’s shoulders, gripping him hard.
If it’s painful, Saint doesn’t react.
His face remains like stone, and his voice doesn’t waver, keeping that same smooth tone he’s held all night. “Barry.”
He lets go with a nudge, but it doesn’t work as he intended. Saint is at least twice the size of him.
Dressed in a suit that matches Louisa’s, he looks all business. His golden-brown hair shines against the chandelier, and those hazel eyes could well be gleaming red when I lock eyes with him. “Where’s your shadow? Rina?”
“Regina,” Louisa cuts in.
“Fuck, of course. I thought she was joining you?”
“She’s—” Louisa cuts in again.
“Still travelling?” I bunch my brows at him. Louisa never extended the invite to her.
Barry pins me with a look, and my next breath feels like sand has filled my lungs. “Well, that’s a shame.”
The rest of the meal goes by without any more awkward occurrences. Mom and Morgan mostly hold the fort; Saint and Barry seem to be in a silent battle of who might get their head shot off first.
And Louisa? She’s got her eyes locked on her husband.
When it’s time to leave, the pit in my stomach eases, everyone getting ready to say their goodbyes until my mom shouts down the hall to Saint, “Oh, Saint. Help me carry these out to the car quickly would you, honey? There’s some in there for you too.”
I turn to find her holding a bag full of gifts, shoving one with her foot along the sleek tiled floor. “Mom, I’m twenty-eight. Spend your money on yourself!”
Every Thanksgiving, Mom would get us presents. It’s a tradition she’s always kept up. Despite it not being customary, she always,alwayssneaks in what she calls herChristmas starter pack.
“Hush, there’s some in there for Gina as well. Come on, Saint, put those muscles to use!” Her laugh follows her to the door, and Saint glares at me.
“I’ll be fine, just be quick,” I whisper, but he pulls me into him as if he’s giving me a hug, and in one sleek movement, tucks his gun into the back of my waistband.
“Safety is off.”
His eyes glance over my head, before Mom’s calling him from the bottom of the steps outside.
I follow him to the doorway, standing beside the widow that gives me a direct view of him shoving the bags into the trunk, whilst Mom chats to him.
Morgan seems to have disappeared in one of the many rooms looking for a bathroom, a wise choice seeing as Mom wants a photo of us all before we leave.
I’d rather peel my skin off.
Awareness prickles over me like tiny needles, a shadow blocking out mine in the reflection of the window. “Where is she, Indie?”
