If she weren’t so paralyzed with fear of the inevitable outcome of this meeting, she would preen over how proud she was of Jonathan’s accomplishments. He was a phenomenal architect because he was foremost an artist.
“Well,” Rory started, putting the shadow of a swinging guillotine blade over her throat, “it was good to see you, man, but I’m afraid I’m here to see the woman who haunts my every thought and convince her to finally be mine.”
Rory stepped around Jonathan and had his arms around her back before she could so much as blink. “Maggie,” Rory growled against her lips.
forty-one
HANNAH
The HIV medshadn’t done crap to make her feel better. The nurse said to give them a week. All Hannah wanted was to go to bed and stay there for a month. Her body ached, and she was past exhausted.
Despite her drooping eyelids—drooping everything, really—her body had a jittery unease that worsened by the hour, especially as midnight approached.
The voices were threatening to leave her again, but this time, something about their matter-of-fact attitudes was chilling and made her believe they meant it this time.
Diseased whore.
Ugly.
Ruined.
Talentless.
Fat.
Crone.
Their words echoed around her throbbing skull, making her wince and stumble on the uneven cobbles.
That was her life now, stumbling along. Wretched. A wretch.
Hannah felt her nose drip and tears sting her eyes as she continued the now familiar route to the workshop above the gallery.
Mirren’s workspace…soon to be left in ruin. That thought alone was the only bright spot in her otherwise miserable life.
Her family, the voices, had initially wanted Hannah to destroy the space, focusing on razing the girl’s current work projects and stock, but because she needed to impress them now more than ever, she suggested something bigger.
Grander.
Deadly.
We went with your idea, you stupid idiot, perhaps consider not bouncing the damn bomb off your fat, fucking hip.
I don’t know… If she blows herself up, it’s a win-win for us.
The second we’re done here, you’d better waddle as fast as you can to a train heading to Edinburgh.
We need money, and let’s be clear, you don’t have a future on your back.
Hannah doesn’t have a future on her feet.
Hannah pulled the bag containing the explosive secured in a box closer to her side, minimizing the danger. She convinced the voices that destroying Mirren’s sister’s work wasn’t enough. That would only set her back. What was needed was destruction and pain. Blood.
Fortunately, Hannah had been spending enough time in Dublin’s underworld of drugs and degradation that she heard of an ex-military drug runner who loved nothing more than building bombs. It had taken the rest of the money her dear old psychiatrist had gifted her. She had only enough for train and ferry fare. Needs must.
Her shoulders hunched further over her ears, the comments taking their pound of flesh as intended.
She would prove her worth tonight.
