“Of course, Mr. Morelli, and I can also tell you my greatest strength and weakness.”
It catches me off guard, both the thought of a Constantine having to sit for an interview and Haley choosing this moment to joke about it, and the laugh it pulls out of me is a genuine one. A proud smile streaks across Haley’s face and she celebrates this tiny victory with a sip of her wine. “Why did you choose English lit?”
Her grin softens. “My mom taught me how to read. We spent a ton of time together with our books before she died. Sometimes I can still hear her voice when I’m reading.” Haley risks a tentative glance from under her eyelashes, then puts her wineglass down with studied care. “Is your mom a reader?”
I hate the cold, defensive feeling I get when the words land. A cousin to jealousy. The only reason I let this continue is because I like the sound of Haley’s voice, and I like it more than I thought I would. “She spends most of her time planning dinners and keeping secrets from my father.” Fuck—too far. “I’d imagine she reads magazines.”
Haley doesn’t dare ask what secrets I mean. There are more than we have time for, even if I did want the Constantines to know about how my mother’s true fixation is on sleeping with younger men. More than a few of my friends from high school and college went to her bed, right under my father’s nose. It was a life-or-death gamble. I have no idea how she’s still alive.
The moment is saved by Mrs. Page coming back to serve the main course, which is sea bass. Haley waits until she’s gone to speak. “Daphne said you were protective of her growing up.”
“And?”
“Did you really make her take extra security to the art gallery?”
“Does Daphne strike you as a liar?”
“No.” She cuts into the fish. “But you don’t strike me as that kind of person. You know...” A bite of sea bass. Her hand shakes around her fork. “A nice person. A person who goes out of his way for anyone.”
“I went out of my way for you.”
“To be nice?” Her voice is deceptively casual, as if we’re having a conversation about the weather. Her eyes are a sharp, brilliant blue. She thinks she’s unpacking me. I hope to hell she’s not.
“I was in the right place at the right time.” Of course, I was in the right place for Haley because I put myself there. I did the same thing for my siblings.
All except Lucian, who never seemed to feel fear or pain or anything else.
Our parents, on the other hand, hunted for fear and pain. Thrived on fear and pain. Live long enough with a pair of snarling wolves, and it’s obvious that the only distraction is a snarling wolf who’s foaming at the mouth and snapping at their heels. I was angrier than they were, and crazier, and more reckless as long as it gave my siblings time to hide.
My reputation as the Beast of Bishop’s Landing is accurate, it just lacks context.
Old tension strings itself through my muscles. The instinct to blame Haley for it is stronger than the whispers that say it’s not her. It can’t possibly be her. It’s that dinners were dangerous, volatile things, when all of us were forced to be in the same room and there weren’t enough exits. When any question from my mother or father could turn out to be a grenade with the pin already pulled.
“Enough about me, darling. I want to know why your family has hung you out to dry in this job market. The famous, perfect Constantines couldn’t scrape up a publishing company for you to work at?”
Haley looks uncomfortable. “I never wanted to ask for help. My dad was never a model Constantine, and with my aunt, there are always strings attached.”
“Your aunt?”
“Caroline.”
Before Haley’s mouth is finished forming the word, before the sound can fully reach me, a blaze of anger overtakes its boundaries and burns itself through every one of my veins. The rage takes me by surprise. I was ready for this. I knew the name she was going to say.
Because I know all about Caroline Constantine.
I know all about her from personal fucking experience.
The skin on my back crawls. Phantom pain. Very real fury. It’s not about the young woman sitting across the table. Not her fault, anyway. But she’s the one who will feel my wrath. Because the world isn’t fucking fair. I learned that young. Younger than Haley is now.
I’ve been holding back. I haven’t fucked Haley yet, because I wanted her to spend as much time as possible in horrified anticipation, fearing it, wondering when it would happen. I wanted the monster in her head to be far more terrifying than reality, so the two of them—me and that frightened imagination—will feed off each other until she cries and begs and comes and lives the rest of her life with the mark of them on her heart.
It’s disappointing, in a vague sense, that I only managed to wait two nights. But I’m ready now. Ready for a revenge fuck. Ready for the revenge fuck. Haley can be the one to answer for all the crimes of the Constantines. Then she’ll know—
She’s gone on speaking. Awareness of it comes too late to understand what she’s saying. I discover I’m staring at Haley, into those blue Constantine eyes, and not bothering to make my expression into something that passes for neutral.
Too late. Haley’s already seen. She hooks a hand on the edge of the table, holding on so tight her knuckles are white.
“Leo?” The tremble in her voice says she doesn’t recognize me.
Or maybe it says she does.
12
Haley
I’ve said the wrong thing.
Leo’s face is a candlelit mask, the shadows deadly sharp. It’s subtle. I expected his fury to be a massive display, with bared teeth and extended claws. With flipped furniture and broken glass. But whatever wound I’ve opened with my words is contained within his body.
It’s worse that way. Scarier. A man who turns over tables—I can understand that. I can fathom an anger so overwhelming that it transforms to blind motion. I’ve felt that before. When my mother died I tore down the curtains in our house. I ripped at the seams to her pillow until the soft insides bled out on the bedroom floor. For months afterward, we could only use paper plates and cups.
He’s that angry. The air is hot with it. But Leo does nothing. The flames from the candles burn in the black centers of his eyes. He sits up tall, his fork held so carefully in one hand that I’m afraid for it.
Or maybe I’m afraid for me.
At the sound of his name, Leo’s jaw tightens.
The door behind me—the one Mrs. Page keeps coming out of—opens, and the pattern of her steps falters. She feels it, too. I’m aware of a shadow in the other door. Gerard. He’s been in and out, holding the door for Mrs. Page and carrying things for her.
I try to catch her eye when she puts the dessert plates down in front of us.
She won’t look at me.
“Close the door when you go out.” Leo’s voice is deadly even.
Mrs. Page pauses, halfway to standing, then completes the movement. “Can I bring more water? More wine?”
“No. Leave.” Leo keeps his eyes on me. Mrs. Page takes our empty plates. Leo drops his fork at the last second and she takes that, too.