Page 32 of Destroyed With You

He studies my face again, frowning.

I know he’s playing me, and I should ignore it. But I say, “What?”

“Just wondering if this sounds familiar.”

“Not really.”

“No? Because the word on the street is that you’re the assassin Hawthorne hired.”

“Really? And exactly what street is that? Because I’m thinking you need a new map.”

To his credit, Winston chuckles. But when he turns serious, it’s deadly. I can see it in his eyes. “We’re done with play time,” he says. “Right now, you can keep denying and pretending ignorance or you can tell me the truth. Those are your only options. In fact, it’s even simpler than that. The bottom line is this—you’re going to tell me the truth or you’re not leaving this room alive.”

My pulse starts to race, and I force myself to breathe before answering. To take control. To reclaim this conversation. “You won’t kill me,” I tell him. “I know you too well. I know the kind of man you are. There’s no way you would do that.”

His smile is slow and confident and deeply scary. “Trust me, Linda, the man you used to know is long gone. The Winston sitting here with you? You don’t know him at all. Honestly, he’s pretty damn pissed.”

I force myself not to react. He could be bluffing. Years ago, I would have known for sure. Now, I don’t know shit.

So I do the only thing I can do—I shift the conversation. “I know a little bit, too,” I tell him. “For one thing, you’ve got a lot of information for a man supposedly out of the business. So what exactly are you doing these days, Winston, hmm? Because I have a feeling you’ve never been on a movie set in your life.”

“A couple of times, actually,” he says.

“Really?” My interest is genuine, and I don’t bother to modulate my tone.

He shrugs. “I live in LA now. And I have some friends who are connected.”

“How fun.”

We share a smile. Winston’s parents are classic movie fiends, and I love anything Hollywood. Hades had a four-plex cinema at the edge of town. Two new releases and two-dollar shows, and hitting the theater on Wednesdays and Fridays was the anchor of our routine. That, and what came after once we got home.

My body responds with the memory, and I glance down at our half-eaten meal so he won’t see my face. But to my surprise, his voice is tender when he says, “Yeah. I know. Me, too.”

I look up, and for a moment, we’ve traveled back in time. “I’m sorry,” I say, as if we’d just had a stupid fight about loading the dishwasher. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He nods, then swallows. Even in the dim light, I can see that his eyes are damp. “What did you do after?” he asks, and even though there’s no context whatsoever, I know what he’s asking.

“I left town. I couldn’t stay. If I—If I’d seen you, I wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

He nods slowly. “So you didn’t come to your funeral. Would’ve been interesting.”

“No. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Seeing you, but not talking to you.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “No.”

“The Consortium fell apart soon after. I know, because I took out most of the players personally.”

“I know. They told me.”

“Of course they did.” He holds on tight to the edge of the table, and I’m pretty sure he’s fighting the urge to throw his plate against the wall just for the cathartic pleasure of watching it shatter. “I was in a rage,” he says, his voice hardening under the emotion. “I used it as a lever for finishing them off.”

“Nothing like that is ever truly dead. Billy Hawthorne’s the one who moved in to pick up the pieces.”

“And now you work for him. What am I supposed to think about that?”

“I keep telling you that your information is wrong. I’m not Billy Hawthorne’s hired gun.”

He scoffs.

“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Based on what you know—or what you knew—do you really think I’d work for the likes of him?” I’m coming dangerously close to breaking rules that I believe in. Shattering confidences and breaking vows.