“The revenge. Do you feel better?” Tate won’t be happy that I’m gone, at first, but just like with his doll, he’ll come to a place of acceptance that I’m gone. He’ll move on with his life. He won’tgo off the deep end because he’s obsessed with me. He’ll never be forced to choose between his brother and me again.
“How can I feel better? Jasper’s gone. Tate murdered him. I’ll never feel better.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“Justice.”
That’s what I thought I was doing on the ice. I already did what I had to do; the money was in Gideon’s account. I’d bargained for that last game with Shadowridge, because I’m weak and had to see Tate one last time, even though I couldn’t touch him.
Then McKinnon was there, and he became the symbol for everything I should have had. Loving, functional family, perfect hockey career, that stupid never-falter smile. He even got a happily ever after with his very own VanCourt.
That was supposed to be my future.
I had to smash it into the ground.
Justice.
Not gonna lie. Punching McKinnon felt good for a minute. It was a hockey game after all—the perfect place to take out your life on willing human punching bags—but I crashed out. Went too far.
Then I just felt like shit.
I close my eyes, trying not to think, letting numbness take over my body. When I open them again, it’s work not to let cloying terror take over. The car’s curling up a long driveway, approaching an old wrought iron gate.
We’re at Kline Manor.
Iwas given a set of beige scrubs. The hazard-free kind of garments you wear in a psychiatric hospital. Then I was told to shower. The door had to stay open while a few of Kline’s guards and Clarence waited outside.
As soon as I was clean and dressed, I was hobbled with a set of ankle shackles, so I couldn’t run, and chain handcuffs to bind my wrists. Clarence made a show of tucking the key neatly into his pocket. Not ideal, but better than that fucking straitjacket, though I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of it.
I’m led down to the dining room, even though it’s got to be somewhere around midnight. The game ended sometime after ten p.m. It’s the world’s worst dinner party.
Kline, of course, ghastly scar on his face, red and angry. Tate couldn’t have fed him much either, a shell of who he was when I was here months ago. But otherwise, he’s cleaned up. He seems to have kept his hair longer, but the rest of him is decked in his usual suit and tie.
Griffon is next to his twin, Cooper, dressed in matching green polo shirts and black dress pants. Did someone make them do that? Diabolical.
My father and Clarence are here, of course, seated at the end of the table. But it’s the surprise guest that fills my veins with raging hot anger.
“What the fuck is Luke doing here?” He wasn’t supposed to know. “He was supposed to be left out of this.”
“Oh, was he?” Clarence says. “I forgot.”
“You lying fucking bastard.”
“Sit down, Ryan,” Father says. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Luke’s slumped in the chair at an awkward angle. What the fuck did they give him? His arms aren’t tied down, but I can’t see his feet. Unless they went with a horse tranquilizer, if they don’t have him restrained in some way, they’re cooked. I don’t think the laws of bullets apply to VanCourts.
I do sit down, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid like attempt to finish what I started on McKinnon on someone else. They’d all deserve it, but it probably wouldn’t go well for me. My knuckles still throb from pounding on his cage. Not my brightest.
“What’s the big plan?” I ask.
“We’re going to eat,” Father says.
“This supposed to be a last meal kind of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, didn’t think you had it in you to be kind.”
