Page 38 of Twisted Enemy
“I’m not sleeping,” she snaps. “I’m going downstairs. To my office. To figure out how to save my clan.”
“Nothing will change before morning.”
“I need?—”
“You need a clear head. Get some sleep. I’ll help you tomorrow.”
“You’ve helped quite enough,” she snaps. But she clearly realizes I won’t yield. She turns back to the bed, where I join her as she curls onto her left side.
I let her steal the lion’s share of the covers as she yanks the sheet up to her chin. I don’t make any effort to touch her, to pull her back to my body, to gentle the ragged fury she exhales with every breath.
Instead, I close my eyes against the glow of her nightstand lamp, and I wonder how many other pitfalls wait for us. Because I know one thing is absolutely certain: Tarasovwillcome back with more demands. He’ll push for greater and greater access to the Canton Crew files.
And in the end, I may not be able to keep him from exposing Kate’s life to the feds.
17
KATE
Another Sunday night, another family meal—this time with the Andersons, the schoolteacher and his wife who are the closest thing Cole has to a loving family. And I’m spoiling for a fight, much as I was last week when we joined Mam and Da for Sunday Roast.
Then, it was because my parents were pushing to turn poor Breagha into Tarasov’s whore. Now, it’s because Cole still hasn’t admitted he made a mistake, handing over Da’s banking file to that bratva shitehawk.
Plus, after seven days of fretting I’m no closer to finding a way to keep my sister safe from Tarasov. She thinks she’s doing something noble, but she doesn’t have a clue how depraved that bratva shitehawk actually is. If I tell her the truth after eighteen years, I don’t know how she’ll ever trust me again.
And one more thing: Cole is hiding something from me. He’s cut his usual four hours of sleep a night to barely two. Every time I walk into his office, he blacks out the monitors on his wall.
Something’s broken. Maybe several somethings. And the last way I want to spend tonight is putting on some feckin’ stage play—happy feckin’ wife, loving feckin’ couple—in front of the goddamn feckin’ Andersons.
I know I’m supposed touse my words, explain all the ways I’m angry and frightened and aching. But the demons scrabbling inside my brain drown out everything Ishoulddo. They tell me to do what I’ve always done, what’s kept me safe in the past: Forget about fair play. Do whatever I must to protect myself.
“Go on,” I say to Cole after he parks the Camry at the curb. “I’ll wait out here.” That way, I won’t be tempted to say things I shouldn’t.
He scoffs, exactly as I know he will. “You are not sitting in this car for the next four hours.”
“Then give me the keys.” I hold out my hand like that’s a perfectly reasonable request. “We passed a Starbucks a mile back. Text me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll come get you.”
His eyes harden. “Kate,” he says. That’s the way he said my name the night he gave away Da’s data:Kate, don’t be ridiculous. Kate, this is important to me. Kate, you will do as I say.
So I match his tone precisely: “Cole.”Cole, don’t you dare push me. Cole, don’t expect me to lie for you. Cole, I’m more stubborn than you and I’m more angry than you and I’ll make sure you pay a price if you drag me inside that house and expect me to pretend everything is fuckingnormal.
The Andersons think Cole is a dedicated worker bee at a giant government contractor. They don’t know about his billions. They have no idea I’m a mob princess. Their simple, honest world doesn’t have room for our true lives.
Clutching the steering wheel, Cole grits his teeth. But before Himself and I can launch into a true shouting match, Mr. A opens the bungalow’s front door and comes halfway down the walk. Mrs. A is framed in the doorway behind him, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Cole?” Mr. A calls, shielding his eyes with one hand to peer into our vehicle. “Is everything okay?”
Cole mutters under his breath, “Do not test me, Kate.”
The devil inside me says I should scream, but I manage to shove the demon down for long enough to stretch a grin across my teeth. Feeling as fake as a Barbie doll, I open my car door and speak through my pretend smile. “Everything’s grand, Mr. A. I was just finishing a story, telling Cole about a work disaster last Friday.”
“That server outage was a mess, wasn’t it?”
The first time Cole brought me here, I improvised a job with the Baltimore School District, never dreaming how many people Mr. A actually knows in my supposed place of employment. If I’d thought things through, I would have chosen a more obscure occupation—zookeeper, maybe. Or wind turbine technician. Maybe I’d turn myself into a pediatric oncology nurse.
But I dug my grave. And now I have to avoid slipping into it as Cole follows me up the walk. I can feel his grim command—do not test me—like fog rising off a glacier as I say to Mr. A, “The day ended up a total loss.”
And then I’m folded into Mrs. A’s embrace. She smells like baby powder and lemons, and I wonder how hard I’m supposed to hug back. I must get the pressure right, because she’s still smiling when she goes up on tiptoe to kiss Cole’s cheek.
