“No, you said I’d help.”
“I’ll help,” Daniel chirps, his fingers slathered in sticky meat.
“And me,” Esther pipes up, a blatant move to placate me. It’s all good and well, but I’m not marrying Esther and it would be quite nice to have my husband involved somewhere in the planning.
“See,” Danny murmurs as he approaches, sinking his fingers into my hair and kissing my forehead, trying to appease me too. “It’s covered.” He pulls away, and I swallow, unable to look him in the eye. I feel like I could cry. How stupid.
“Okay,” I relent, breaking away and turning, hiding my face, but I only make it one step before I’m tugged to a stop. I look at his big, lethal hand wrapped around my forearm. “I said okay.”
A swift tug has me facing him, but I keep my eyes low, willing the glaze to fuck off. A tent, for fuck’s sake. What’s gotten into me? The tips of his fingers grip my chin and lift, but I resist, making it as hard as possible for him to make me look at him.
“Rose,” he says, low and threateningly. I swallow and look up. His glacial eyes are annoyed slits, but his grip soon softens, as well as his stare. He breathes in deeply, nodding. “Give me half an hour,” he says, eyes on mine, and for a moment I think he’s told me to give him time, but then Ringo and Otto back out of the kitchen, and I realize he’s talking to them. He dips and bites my cheek. “Come on,” he whispers, curling an arm around my neck and hauling me close. “Let’s go talk tents.”
I smile, settling into his side. He chose me. “I won’t be long, Daniel,” I say, looking back at my boy. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, his focus on his burger mixture. He clearly loves being with Esther, who is totally in her element being on Grandma duty.
When we get to the front drive, I greet a man who’s staring up at the front of the mansion. “You must be Franz.”
“Rose,” he says, taking my hand.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“No problem. You were lucky we had a cancelation.”
“This is my husband, Danny.”
“Nice to meet you,” Franz says, offering his hand. “Husband-to-be, right?”
“Right,” Danny replies, accepting and shaking, sizing up Franz. “Local?”
“Naples, actually.”
“Quite a drive.” Danny releases and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Shall we?” He starts wandering around the side of the house. “I was thinking by the pool.”
“You’ve been thinking about it?” I ask, following with Franz.
“It’s off the main patio. Makes sense.” He looks back at me. “Did you have somewhere else in mind?”
“No.”
“Then off the main patio it is.” He comes to a gradual stop and points to the lawn. “There.”
“Great.” Franz gets a tape measure out and starts taking notes. “I assume electric is accessible.”
“Over there,” I say, pointing to an outside socket.
“Perfect. We’ll need access the day before to get everything ready.”
“No problem.” Danny perches on the low wall that edges the patio.
“What kind of lighting were you thinking?”
“Over to my wife,” he says.
“Wife-to-be,” Franz corrects him, and Danny peeks at me, a small smile tickling the corner of his lips.
“Right,” Danny agrees quietly, hardly heard. “Wife-to-be.” He crosses his ankles and gets comfortable, and I swing into action, confirming all the plans —lighting, tables arrangements, chair dressings, everything, while Danny gives the dogs some fuss.
“You could at least pretend to be interested,” I mumble, muscling my way in between Barbie and Cindy.
He sends them away and looks over his shoulder when Ringo approaches behind us. “I really have to go now.” He stands and kisses my cheek. “You’ve got this.” He wanders off, talking quietly with Ringo as he goes.
I’ve got this. Have I? Have I really got this, because I’m losing my grip more each day. I wait until they’ve disappeared around the corner before following, peeking around the house when I get there. A car pulls up, and Brad gets out, going straight to the back. And a few seconds later, a man is dragged from the back seat, wailing his protests. It’s the detective who came here when Danny was missing. The one who asked us to identify his body. Spattle. Spittle. I thought he and Danny were good.
“For God’s sake,” I mutter, watching as he’s manhandled into the house by Brad, who has a gun wedged into the man’s temple. “Not fucking cool.” God help any man here if Daniel sees anything he shouldn’t see.
“Rose?”
I bite down on my teeth and pluck a smile from nowhere, turning to face Tank. “Yeah, okay,” I mumble. “I’m spying on my husband.”
I make my way back to Franz and walk through the rest of the plans, my mind elsewhere, my stomach back to churning terribly. Once we’re finished, and I’ve handed him over to Bud to see out, I hurry back into the house, bypassing the kitchen to avoid Esther and Daniel. I feel sick to my stomach. “I’m fine,” I call back to Tank, who’s following my hurried pace. I burst into our room, dash across the carpet, and the second I’m in the bathroom, I throw up everywhere on loud, body-jerking wretches. “Jesus,” I gasp between heaves, yanking off some toilet paper to wipe my mouth.
“Still fine?”
I swing round and find Tank in the doorway, grimacing at the toilet. “Keep this to yourself,” I order harshly. The last thing I need is Danny thinking I’m not strong enough to deal with everything. I hate this . . . but I have to endure it. I have to stay strong. “God damn me,” I whisper, locking myself in the bathroom and drawing on every ounce of strength to pull myself together before I go downstairs to be with Daniel.
I need to appear okay, not just for the sake of my husband.
11
JAMES
* * *
“Where are you holding him?” I ask Brad as I follow him into Danny’s office, the thirst for a kill overwhelming me.
He laughs his way to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a Scotch as I shut the door, an unmoving sneer fixed on my face. “I’m not telling you.” He turns, smiling at my barely contained rage. “Maybe you should burn off some energy in the gym.”
I drop into a chair. “I’d rather burn some energy on Spittle. Why is he still alive?”
“Spittle is one of those things in life that everyone hates but serves a purpose so we have to keep it.” Brad throws back his drink. “Like toes. We all hate them, but we need them.”
My fingertips start drumming my jean-clad thigh, my mind planning all the ways I’m going to kill Spittle, because one way or another, today or tomorrow, he will die. Brad takes the seat beside me, passing me a tumbler. I can sense some pacifying words on the horizon. There are three things I know about Brad Black: he has a sick sense of humor, he’s a coldblooded killer, and he thinks really hard about his kills. A bit like Danny Black. And me. A thoughtful killer is the deadliest killer. A killer who plays with their prey. Extends their torture. Prolongs the thrill. Although thinking seems to be beyond me at the moment. Has been since Beau became the end game. I just want to kill every fucker who poses a threat and be done with it. Move on. Seal the peace that is eluding Beau and me. I’m technically still dead. It won’t stay that way for long with Danny causing ripples in the underworld.