Reaper's Fire
Page 2
Brandon gave me his politician’s smile, the same smile he used to schmooze future donors for his campaign. He hadn’t announced anything yet, but I’d known for a while that he planned to run for King County Prosecuting Attorney when the position opened up in two years. The current prosecutor would be retiring, and as head of the criminal division, Brandon was the logical successor.
“Sit down next to the bed,” I said quietly. “We need to talk.”
“Of course,” he replied, all concern. The portrait of a loving husband. Too bad there wasn’t a camera to capture the moment. Might make a good campaign poster, so long as they Photoshopped some color onto my cheeks.
“She was a little girl,” I told him. I hadn’t known ahead of time—I’d wanted it to be a surprise. “They don’t know why she died. They said that sometimes late-term miscarriages are caused by genetic abnormalities.”
He sighed heavily, then looked down, shaking his head. God, but the man was a good actor. Guess that was my consolation—I wasn’t the only one who’d fallen for his shit. There was a reason he always won with juries.
People wanted to believe him.
“It’s probably for the best,” he said slowly. “She wouldn’t have been healthy, and you have so much to handle already. Once the campaign starts—”
I studied the man I’d slept with for ten years, ignoring the drone of his voice. There was just the hint of a bald spot on the top of his head. Nothing serious, but I knew he’d met with a doctor to discuss hair plugs. Dreamily, I pictured taking my big chef’s knife and chopping it down through his skull. Bone was hard, but I kept my knives very, very sharp.
God, but I was a fucked-up excuse for a human being.
“It’s over,” I said shortly, sliding my rings off my finger. Brandon’s head jerked up, and he stared at me, his expression genuine for once.
“What?”
I held the sparkling jewelry out toward him, but he didn’t take it.
“It’s over,” I repeated. “This whole marriage was a mistake and I’d like you to leave now. My lawyer will be in touch—I’ll ask Smith for a referral. I think the faster we finalize things, the better.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, and while the words were apologetic, I could see the little vein in his forehead starting to pulse. Brandon was angry. Good.
I was angry, too.
“Get out of my room,” I added, my voice low but fierce, my free hand rubbing across my empty stomach.
“Tinker, they’ve obviously given you drugs for the pain—you’re not thinking right. We need to talk this through. You’ll see—”
“Oh, I see already. Your wife was in the hospital, your child was dying, and you cared more about your conviction rate than our survival. I think you’ve made your priorities clear.”
For once—maybe for the first time ever—Brandon didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, staring at me like a big, dumb slug. Satisfying as that was, it wasn’t enough. He needed to go away and never come back. Yup, that was the solution . . . The marriage was over. I should have felt liberated, but I couldn’t feel anything at all. Probably for the best. Grief yawned ahead of me, a black pit I wasn’t sure I’d ever manage to escape. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get. Out,” I snarled, sudden anger uncurling and exploding through me. Guess I could still feel something after all. “And take your fucking rings with you. If I have to look at your smug, disgusting face for another second I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Tinker, you need to settle down,” he said firmly, frowning like a stern father. But I already had a dad, and he was better than this man would ever be. Brandon reached for the call button. “Let’s talk to the nurse. You obviously need a sedative or—oww! What the fuck, Tinker?”
It took two hands to raise his massive, overpriced bundle of roses high enough to hit him again, this time across his picture-perfect, spray-tanned face.
“Get out!” I shrieked. Brandon ducked, backing away. I managed to get in one more whack before he got out of range.
“Tinker, you have to settle down!” he shouted. I heard running footsteps in the hall. “Tinker, please—you aren’t thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking straighter than I have in years!” I shouted back, throwing the bundle of flowers after him. “Get the fuck out of my room and get the fuck out of my life! And take your fucking piece of shit diamonds with you, too, asshole!”
Digging through the covers, I found the rings, pitching them toward my future ex as hard as I could.
“Owww!” he shouted, clutching at his face. A few drops of blood hit the floor. “Jesus Christ, Tinker. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s going on?” the nurse asked, pushing the door open. She stared at us, wide-eyed. “Security!”
Things moved fast after that.
As the guards came, I struggled out of the bed, screaming at Brandon like a banshee the entire time. He seemed stunned, completely unable to comprehend what’d just happened, which I thought was fucking hysterical. Brandon’s ego had always operated on the too-big-to-fail theory.
Margarita rushed in, catching my arm and pulling me back toward the bed.
“Calm down or they’ll shoot you full of happy drugs,” she whispered in my ear. My chest heaved as I glared at Brandon, showing him every bit of my utter hate and anguish.
“I don’t want to calm down,” I hissed, wondering if I could launch myself forward and scratch his eyes out before they caught me.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “Because otherwise he’ll think he’s the victim here. Don’t give him that. Knowing your luck, he’ll press charges.”
A snort of laughter burst out of me, because wouldn’t that be just like Brandon? Not that he would . . . Not really. That would be far too embarrassing. Couldn’t risk scuffing up that precious image of his, now, could we?
I looked up to find the guards escorting him out of the room. The nurse was pushing me toward the bed and I did what she said, because everything else aside, I really didn’t want to get sedated or whatever. She helped me sit down, her face firm but compassionate.
“I know this has been a terrible day—probably the worst of your life,” she said. “But you can’t physically attack people or we’ll have to restrain you. Would you like me to call a counselor?”
“Sit down next to the bed,” I said quietly. “We need to talk.”
“Of course,” he replied, all concern. The portrait of a loving husband. Too bad there wasn’t a camera to capture the moment. Might make a good campaign poster, so long as they Photoshopped some color onto my cheeks.
“She was a little girl,” I told him. I hadn’t known ahead of time—I’d wanted it to be a surprise. “They don’t know why she died. They said that sometimes late-term miscarriages are caused by genetic abnormalities.”
He sighed heavily, then looked down, shaking his head. God, but the man was a good actor. Guess that was my consolation—I wasn’t the only one who’d fallen for his shit. There was a reason he always won with juries.
People wanted to believe him.
“It’s probably for the best,” he said slowly. “She wouldn’t have been healthy, and you have so much to handle already. Once the campaign starts—”
I studied the man I’d slept with for ten years, ignoring the drone of his voice. There was just the hint of a bald spot on the top of his head. Nothing serious, but I knew he’d met with a doctor to discuss hair plugs. Dreamily, I pictured taking my big chef’s knife and chopping it down through his skull. Bone was hard, but I kept my knives very, very sharp.
God, but I was a fucked-up excuse for a human being.
“It’s over,” I said shortly, sliding my rings off my finger. Brandon’s head jerked up, and he stared at me, his expression genuine for once.
“What?”
I held the sparkling jewelry out toward him, but he didn’t take it.
“It’s over,” I repeated. “This whole marriage was a mistake and I’d like you to leave now. My lawyer will be in touch—I’ll ask Smith for a referral. I think the faster we finalize things, the better.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, and while the words were apologetic, I could see the little vein in his forehead starting to pulse. Brandon was angry. Good.
I was angry, too.
“Get out of my room,” I added, my voice low but fierce, my free hand rubbing across my empty stomach.
“Tinker, they’ve obviously given you drugs for the pain—you’re not thinking right. We need to talk this through. You’ll see—”
“Oh, I see already. Your wife was in the hospital, your child was dying, and you cared more about your conviction rate than our survival. I think you’ve made your priorities clear.”
For once—maybe for the first time ever—Brandon didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, staring at me like a big, dumb slug. Satisfying as that was, it wasn’t enough. He needed to go away and never come back. Yup, that was the solution . . . The marriage was over. I should have felt liberated, but I couldn’t feel anything at all. Probably for the best. Grief yawned ahead of me, a black pit I wasn’t sure I’d ever manage to escape. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get. Out,” I snarled, sudden anger uncurling and exploding through me. Guess I could still feel something after all. “And take your fucking rings with you. If I have to look at your smug, disgusting face for another second I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Tinker, you need to settle down,” he said firmly, frowning like a stern father. But I already had a dad, and he was better than this man would ever be. Brandon reached for the call button. “Let’s talk to the nurse. You obviously need a sedative or—oww! What the fuck, Tinker?”
It took two hands to raise his massive, overpriced bundle of roses high enough to hit him again, this time across his picture-perfect, spray-tanned face.
“Get out!” I shrieked. Brandon ducked, backing away. I managed to get in one more whack before he got out of range.
“Tinker, you have to settle down!” he shouted. I heard running footsteps in the hall. “Tinker, please—you aren’t thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking straighter than I have in years!” I shouted back, throwing the bundle of flowers after him. “Get the fuck out of my room and get the fuck out of my life! And take your fucking piece of shit diamonds with you, too, asshole!”
Digging through the covers, I found the rings, pitching them toward my future ex as hard as I could.
“Owww!” he shouted, clutching at his face. A few drops of blood hit the floor. “Jesus Christ, Tinker. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s going on?” the nurse asked, pushing the door open. She stared at us, wide-eyed. “Security!”
Things moved fast after that.
As the guards came, I struggled out of the bed, screaming at Brandon like a banshee the entire time. He seemed stunned, completely unable to comprehend what’d just happened, which I thought was fucking hysterical. Brandon’s ego had always operated on the too-big-to-fail theory.
Margarita rushed in, catching my arm and pulling me back toward the bed.
“Calm down or they’ll shoot you full of happy drugs,” she whispered in my ear. My chest heaved as I glared at Brandon, showing him every bit of my utter hate and anguish.
“I don’t want to calm down,” I hissed, wondering if I could launch myself forward and scratch his eyes out before they caught me.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “Because otherwise he’ll think he’s the victim here. Don’t give him that. Knowing your luck, he’ll press charges.”
A snort of laughter burst out of me, because wouldn’t that be just like Brandon? Not that he would . . . Not really. That would be far too embarrassing. Couldn’t risk scuffing up that precious image of his, now, could we?
I looked up to find the guards escorting him out of the room. The nurse was pushing me toward the bed and I did what she said, because everything else aside, I really didn’t want to get sedated or whatever. She helped me sit down, her face firm but compassionate.
“I know this has been a terrible day—probably the worst of your life,” she said. “But you can’t physically attack people or we’ll have to restrain you. Would you like me to call a counselor?”
