Page 40 of Sweet Ruin

I hear about a thieving sister, a cowardly husband. Fucking on the night of her father’s funeral? Christ, shame has no limits, does it?

“… And now, my husband has given away my life’s work as collateral for money I never saw a penny of.”

Just like that, it all snaps into place.

It’s one of those moments where life or the universe or whoever the fuck is in charge of this existence arranges things so beautifully that I can only laugh.

The woman on the other side of these shelves is Connor Boyd’s wife.

Boyd borrowed my money and pledged her building to get it. I knew what he was doing—planned it, orchestrated the whole fucking thing—but I didn’t know that this was who he was doing it to.

I’m not offended on her behalf. I don’t have that particular emotional capacity.

But I am definitely amused.

I had plans of my own when I got here tonight. In a nutshell, it was something like this:

Get Boyd alone, clamp my hand on the back of his neck, and let him understand what he owes and how soon.

This feisty little thing has a much better version.

Get him alone? Find a quiet corner? Fuck that.

Eviscerating him in front of everyone he’s ever known is much, much better.

So I put my cup down on the shelf and I applaud her.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

She turns around. In the dark, she’s nothing more than a curvy shape and the shine of her eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” she says in alarm.

“I’d say I’m your newest fan,” I reply.

She doesn’t seem as flattered as she should. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear that you have a very interesting evening ahead of you.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. I hear fear in it, and anger, and fire.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” she asks.

“And ruin what’s about to be the performance of a lifetime? Hell no.”

The exhale that comes past her lips is brimming with relief. “Okay. Good. That’s… that’s good.” Then the suspicion rises back up. “You’re not going to ask me what it’s about?”

I chuckle. “You made it all pretty clear, I’d say. No follow-up questions necessary.”

Her gulp echoes in the space. “Am I about to blow up my life?” she whispers aloud.

I don’t think she’s actually asking me, but I answer anyway. “It doesn’t sound like it was much of a life in the first place.”

“No,” she concedes. “I don’t really think it was.”