Me and ultimatums? Yeah, we don’t mix. Give me two options and tell me I need to pick between them and I’ll find a third just to throw up a middle finger. Sloane’s friend has thrown me a curveball, though. Try as I might, I can’t seem to find a fucking third option here. Newan wants me to stay away from her friend, which I can’t do. And so the alternative would be to go to fucking therapy sessions with her myself. Which I can’t do.
The old me would have just said screw it and I’d have told her I’d stay away from Sloane, fully intending on seeing her anyway, but if I do that and the shrink finds out, then it’s Lacey paying the price, not me. The girl needs help. The girl needs help more than I need Sloane Romera in my life.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Who the hell does this woman think she is, anyway? I’m so fucking mad at her. Normally I’d solve this problem by planting my fist firmly into the face of the person responsible for making me see red like this. But I can’t. Because she’s a smug, in an I-have-a-PhD-in-psychology-and-you’re-one-hundred-different-kinds-of-fucked-up kind of way. She’s manipulating Sloane’s life in a really calculating manner. Bitch is probably jealous that her friend is getting some or something. I laugh: yeah, that’s highly unlikely. The woman oozed her own brand of sexuality that declared she didn’t have problems getting it when she wanted it. She’s probably just looking out for her friend, but I’ll do anything to justify avoiding her request.
I drive the Camaro across the city, headed for Charlie’s mansion at the other end of the peninsula to Hunt’s Point. This is one of the most salubrious areas in Seattle. Bankers, golf pros, business owners, all respectable types, live here. They wave at Charlie when they’re walking their dogs, mowing the lawn, smile at him as he drives his Lexus down the leafy, suburban streets. They have no idea that he’s a fucking serial killer. He’s lived there for twenty-five years and the place is sacred to him. He definitely doesn’t shit where he eats, and he sure as hell doesn’t appreciate when his boys trail their shit to his doorstep on their shoes either. That basically means no dealing, no weapons, no grudges and no shop talk when you step foot through his front door. Follow those rules and the man will treat you like a king. Break them and he’ll make you wish you’d never been fucking born.
Shop talk is the reason why Charlie has called me over here tonight, though. The man never married, but his mistress, Sophie, is out of town visiting her mother so the place is empty—no curious ears to overhear something they really shouldn’t. I pull the Camaro into the long driveway leading up to Charlie’s estate and wait for the gates to buzz open. The burst of static crackles two seconds later. The security guards are well used to my ride. Know not to keep me waiting.
I park up and head inside, not bothering to knock. Knocking is for people like Rick and O’Shannessy, the lower grades who’ve only been with Charlie a couple of years. I fucking grew up in this house. I lost my virginity here to one of the Mexican housemaids that used to clean up after me when I was a snot-nosed teenager. I broke three of my ribs sparring with a martial arts instructor out on the back tennis court. My current digs are humble compared to this monstrosity of a house, but I never felt at home here. I never felt I deserved this. I always felt like I deserved the stinking shithole my uncle had raised me in during the first miserable part of my life. Dirt poor, lowest of the low. That kind of poor works its way inside your very psyche. No matter how big the roof over your head may grow to be, how many maids you’re fucking, or how many hundred-thousand-dollar cars are parked in the driveway, ready and at your disposal, you can never really escape it.
The lights are on inside Charlie’s place, blazing away, lighting up the whole house. Crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, antique furniture—the works. The boss may have lived in this country for more than half his life, but the guy still seems to believe he’s stuck in 19th-century England.
“Charlie!” I make my way through the sprawling ground floor, headed straight to the one place I can always count on finding the man: his study. Just as I predicted, when I push the door back the grey-haired bastard is bent double over his disgustingly ostentatious desk, snorting a line of blow. He sits up, eyes the size of silver dollars, holding his fingers to his powder-rimmed nostril.
“Well, if it ain’t my most entrusted employee.” He sits back, wipes his hands on the front of his pinstripe waistcoat, leaving smudges of white behind. “So glad you could join me. Did you lock the door behind you?”