Page 166 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Almost there. Assuming Timms films the video. Assuming he confesses his crimes on it. Assuming he goes full Socrates when it’s done. Assuming he doesn’t turn on Hugo or me.

Assuming, assuming, assuming.

We snap into character when Timms’s boot heels thump their way down the hall. Hugo stands and wraps my braid around his hand like a leash, and I adopt a sullen expression as I shift into a kneeling position at his feet.

Geez, Joe has some messed-up ideas about sex.

“Well, aren’t you two cozy?” Timms beams like a proud father when he sees Hugo holding me in place. He’s carrying a ring light on a tripod in one hand and a golf club in the other.

A golf club. Jesus Christ.

Timms notices my awareness and chuckles as he sets the tripod down in front of the couch and struts over to me. “That’s right, Miz Bellamy. I had it in my closet this whole time. This is how I get them all to listen.”

He gives a cruel laugh and rests the club on his shoulder like a baseball bat, the grip loose in his hand.

“You know, it occurs to me that this lying whore’s smear campaign won’t be able to touch me by the morning, so I’m thinking I just kill her now.” He cocks his head and studies me with his flat eyes. “Maybe I’ll even use the murder weapon she’s been looking for to do it.”

Hugo’s fingers tighten around my hair, and Fi breathes a pained, “No.”

We may have just found the flaw in our plan.

Pivot. What’s my pivot?

“Actually, sir, it would be my honor to take care of her.” Hugo-as-Joe does the pivoting for me, hauling me to my feet, his hand still gripping my braid. He uses it to tip my head back so I’m looking up at him, throat exposed. “I promise you, I’ll give her everything she deserves.”

He smiles with feral possessiveness that would be terrifying if I weren’t utterly certain he loves me enough to put hemlock in the municipal water supply if he thought it would keep me alive for even one more day.

“Damn, Joe.” Timms chortles, the sound surprisingly jovial for someone who’s preparing to die. Then with no warning, he whips the club at me, stopping just shy of my forehead. I shrink against Hugo with a whimper, my fear authentic this time.

“Fine. Handle her yourself,” he says, dropping the club to his side with a playful grin. “I don’t want to fuck up the DNA evidence, after all. This thing is covered in Paul Franklin.”

All I want is to keep clinging to Hugo, but I force myself to pull away and watch as Timms sets the club against the arm of the couch and the phone in the tripod. He turns it on to check the angles, and once he’s happy with the setup—couch in the center, shelves with the unread books and the dusty busts behind it, the painting of Socrates to the right—he nods in satisfaction, downright delighted by his plan to go out with a bang.

“All right, let’s do this.” He settles on the couch and tugs on the bright white polo he’s chosen for his farewell message to the world. It’s loose over his belly before it tucks into his jeans, which are cinched with a braided leather belt. His gun rests on his knee, the fingers of his right hand curled around it, and his feet sit flat on the floor. “Will you hit record, brother?”

Hugo hesitates, the word Fingerprints! traveling down his nervous system and into his bare palm where it rests against the delicate skin covering my vertebrae.

“Of course,” he says stiffly. “Do you want to do a practice run first, though? This is for posterity. People will be watching it for years to come.”

My urge to roll my eyes fights with my need to vomit from nerves, but Hugo just plants his feet and waits, radiating patience and mild curiosity.

“Certainly, son.”

“Son,” Quinn whisper-scoffs, and I have to agree. Timms is only eight years older than Hugo.

He leans against the couch and drapes his left arm over the back, practically begging us to mistake him for the lord of the manor, about to school the peasants.

“I’m not apologizing. I’m defending. And I’m not skimping on any details, either. They’ll say I’m sloppy if I do, so I’ll take them through every step of my plan and how I pulled it off.”

A slow smile spreads across Hugo’s face, his look of awe downright comical. “Brilliant,” he murmurs.

Timms inclines his head graciously.

“Can I make one suggestion, sir?” Hugo seamlessly adopts the meek role that Timms seems to need from him now that he’s in control of his own destiny.

“You can try.” Timms makes a show of stroking his fingers down his mustache. He used extra oil for the occasion, and I can smell the sharp tea tree scent from six feet away, along with a trace of the last cigarette he’ll ever smoke.

“Don’t make it about tonight.” Hugo pulls me next to the camera, and I make a show of dropping to the right of the tripod, which should keep us from showing up on the video as reflections in the glass covering the Socrates painting. “This isn’t the woman who tried to kill you on Christmas Eve. This is every woman who’s tried to bring you down since you were a child.”