by Zoe Hill
FOUR
“The four most beautiful words in our common language: I told you so.” ~Gore Vidal~
POPPY
As much as I want to slam the door shut behind me, I refrain. I also ignore the worried silence that’s gripped the change rooms since my inelegant entrance. My body vibrates with rage. I’ve had enough of Chelsea goddamn Vertes’ snarky comments. She can disguise them as concern over the impact my family’s well-documented exploits are ‘perceived’ to have had on my reputation as a Detective as much as she likes.
I recognize her game.
She’s trying to undermine me.
“I’ll throat punch her,” Bella, my best friend, and fellow Detective, offers in a tight voice. “Just say the word and it’s done.”
I don’t trust my voice not to betray my emotions, so I give her a sharp nod then open my locker. Using the door as a shield, I let my chin drop closer to my chest while I try to push all thoughts of my shady as hell colleague out of my mind. It doesn’t work. Coming hot on the heels of the inner turmoil kicked up by therapy yesterday, the more I think about her underhanded ways, the quicker the sticky fingers of fury lick their way up my spine. It takes everything I have not to barge back into the main precinct and announce to everyone with ears that Chelsea is sleeping with our Lieutenant.
It’d serve her right. She’s either lied or fucked her way into every promotion she’s had since we graduated from the academy in the same class. My ethics are above reproach—hers not so much.
Instead of giving in to the temptation to even the score by going low, I paste a smile on my face and strip off my uniform. In situations like this, taking the high road is my only weapon.
“She’s just jealous,” one of the younger officer’s quips as she opens her locker opposite mine. “Try to pretend she doesn’t exist. That’s what we all do.”
A titter of laughter echoes around the locker room. It dampens the remaining ashes of my rage until they’re almost extinguished, and I find myself giggling with them. Our mirth invades the entire change room. It cements the solidarity I normally feel within my precinct—despite Chelsea’s best efforts—and replaces my angst with optimism.
One more year in Homicide and I can apply for the Special Victims Division. That unit is the reason I joined the force. With any luck, that transfer will also move me back closer to home, and Chelsea goddamn Vertes will be nothing more than a bad memory in the rear vision mirror behind me.
I’m zipping up my knee-high, bike boots when my cell phone rings. Seeing that it’s my second-oldest brother, I silence the call and slip the phone into my pocket before I grab my backpack. Chester will want a favor that I can’t provide, so I’m in no rush to bring forth our inevitable showdown. Oliver, my eldest brother, is the only one I’ll answer without delay. He’s easy to deal with, plus he only rings when it’s important.
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I salute the other officers gathered in the main room of the precinct with my motorcycle helmet. “I’ll see you all in three days. Stay safe.”
A series of, “You, too,” follows me out the door. The same occurs in the next room, although Chelsea and her three minions don’t add their voices to the chorus. Their pettiness should make me smile, but it doesn’t. Being hated for nothing more than existing in her orbit is exhausting.
I’m looking forward to having a few days away just so I can blow off enough steam to tolerate her when I report back on duty. Since the hold I have on my patience frays a little thinner every time I interact with her, I’m going to need every minute of the next three days to get a good grip on my emotions before I return. Heading home to see my family in the morning is the perfect balm to my dented soul.
When my phone rings again, I slip it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s Chester, again. That’s not good. Apprehension settles heavily in my gut, but I silence the call anyway. Instead of waiting for Bella to join me so we can ride home together, I hold my hand up to wave to everyone else on my way out, then I speed walk over to my Harley. Slipping my second arm through the strap of my backpack, I straddle my bike, then drag in a steadying breath. Arguing with my older brother is only one spot below dealing with Chelsea on my list of things I can’t stand.
My ass has barely grazed the scalloped leather seat, when my phone lights up for the third time. I jab at the touch screen to accept the call then raise the device to my ear.
“Detective Tennyson,” I bark when the line connects just to annoy him.
“Oh, come on, squirt,” my brother scoffs with a brittleness that makes a mockery of the jovial tone he’s aiming for. But his use of my childhood nickname also ramps up my unease another notch. Only one person still calls me that… and it’s not Chester. “I know you have caller ID.”
“Since I wasn’t sure who’d be on the other end, I thought it’d be prudent to exercise some caution.”
He loudly exhales. “So, you already know?”
The weight in my gut marbleizes in an instant. I was being a bitch by mentioning the one time he let my ex use his phone to talk to me. “Know what?”
“You ne-ed,” Chester’s voice cracks, then he audibly swallows. When he speaks again, I can hear him suppressing tears. “You need… to come… home tonight.”
Sinking deeper into my seat, I bite down on my bottom lip to steady myself before I ask, “Why?”
“It’s Oliver. He, ah, he…”
Chester doesn’t need to say anything else because I just know, deep in my marrow, that my oldest brother is dead. If he wasn’t, then he’d be the one calling to tell me I need to come home.
“When?”
“Last night. He was tortured then finished off with one shot, straight between the eyes. I didn’t even know he was missing until his charred body was dumped at the compound’s gates an hour ago.”
The world starts spinning. I let my phone drop to the asphalt so I can grip my handlebars to stop myself from tumbling over. A roar invades my ears and my knees shake. The saliva disappears from my mouth, and all I can see is my big brother, his effervescent grin gone, and a bloody circle in the middle of his head.
God, no. Not Oliver. To never hear him call me squirt again, to live without his level-headed guidance, to miss the production he makes out of doling out his thoughtful gifts every Christmas, it’s unfathomable to me. He’s the glue that holds my family together.
“Poppy. Poppy… Poppy.” As the initial thundering of grief lessens, I become aware of my name being called. Looking around me, I spot someone running over to me. “Poppy. What’s wrong?”
“Bella,” I croak, then I burst into gasping sobs. “Ollie’s dead.”
My best friend reaches me quickly. Shock covers her face, pulling her generous lips into a thin line and tightening the skin around her eyes. Dropping her bike helmet, she holds her arms out, and I stumble off my bike and into her embrace. We fall to the ground together. I’m not sure how long I cry, but eventually, I realize that Bella is talking on my phone while she holds me. I lift my head from her shoulder and try to blink through the tears that won’t stop falling. She meets my watery gaze with sympathy in hers.
“Is that Chester?” I ask. Nodding, she hands my phone to me. I swallow down the lump that’s taken up residence in my parched throat the best I can and press the phone to my ear. “I’ll be home in two hours.”
My cell is taken from me, and Bella says, “I’ll help her sort her things, then I’ll drive her to New Haven myself. We’ll be gone by the top of the hour… Chester, I need someone to pick up my bike from the precinct, and I think you should get us a tail for the journey home, just in case?... Good. I’ll see you soon.”
For a moment, her request for an escort doesn’t make sense. We’re both cops. We can look after ourselves. Then, it hits me—harder this time. Oliver is dead, and it’s because of what my family does. Because of how they coped with what was done to me.
Despite all my warnings, I’ve lost a brother to the dark side of thei
r moral crusade.
The hardest part to swallow right now is that I’ve counseled them for years that their penchant for walking on both sides of the law would backfire, yet no one took me seriously. They waved off my concern, certain that their ability to protect the most vulnerable amongst us would extend to their crew as well.
Deep down, I knew one of the criminals they’d crossed would catch up with them one day.
Unfortunately, being right isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.
FIVE
“If your actions don't live up to your words, you have nothing to say.” ~DaShanne Stokes~
SPENSER
“It’s time,” my twin brother announces as he steps off the bottom stair and into my basement apartment. Headphones in my ears, I sit up to make sure he’s by himself, then lay back down on my bed once I have confirmation we’re alone. “They’re here, so the quicker you get your stubborn ass upstairs to see them, the sooner you can go back to pretending they don’t exist.”
I let my forearm flop back over my eyes. Blocking him out is juvenile, but the one topic we’ll never see eye to eye on is our parents. In his role as the good son, Stirling has perfected the art of denying the crimes our parents and their Coalition of power-hungry bastards commit to smooth their upward trajectory toward world domination. Unfortunately, I spend my life with my hands stained red by the sins I commit for the Coalition, so I don’t have the luxury of burying my head in the sand like my brother does.
“Spenser?” He pats my leg as he perches on the edge of my bed. Cracking my eyelids, I observe him from under my arm. When he wrinkles his nose at my sparsely decorated apartment, I roll my eyes. “Mom said she’ll bring dinner down here if you don’t appear within the next ten minutes.”
With a groan, I push upright then tug the headphone cord until the buds fall out of my ears. A distant and muted version of “Glass House” by Machine Gun Kelly blares until I close the music app on my phone. My twin offers me a sympathetic look that I ignore. My coping mechanisms are well-known to Stirling and he is the only person in my family that doesn’t act like my emotional crutches are a personal affront.
Tonight, I’ll be entering the proverbial lion’s den unaided. From experience, it’s unlikely to go well. Shaking off the memories of the last time I tried to act like I was normal around my father, I reach over and snag the white bottle of paracetamol I left on my bedside table before I laid down.
Dry swallowing the pills, I meet Stirling’s worried gaze. “What?”
He shakes his head and shoves me onto my back. My entire body tenses, but I don’t fight him when he pulls up my shirt and checks me over. Clicking his tongue in frustration, Stirling strides into my bathroom and returns with the first aid kit he keeps stocked specifically for times like this.
His grip is gentle as he helps me into a sitting position, and he remains silent when I start counting to twelve out loud while he wraps a bandage tightly around my damaged ribs. Once that’s done, he tugs my shirt back into place.
“Hold my hands. I want to check your range of motion.” Stirling takes my hands and guides me through a series of arm movements. The concern in his eyes reduces as I complete the motions without grimacing too much. Little does he know, some of them make me grind my teeth. It’s just that I’d rather bite off my tongue than dump more of my stupidity on his shoulders. “I think you’ve broken two ribs. Apart from that, the damage is superficial.”
Standing back, he jams his hands on his hips and glares at me. “You’re going to be sore, but you already know that. After all, that was your plan, wasn’t it?”
Now that he’s no longer touching me, the heat lessens. Chanting in my head, I offer him a shrug, then reply once I’m feeling back in control, “Nope. Death was my plan… not my fault the target was a pussy.”
I glance over at Lilith, where she sleeps on her windowsill, and mutter, “No offense intended.”
My twin follows my gaze to my cat. He scowls. “If only you loved me as much as you love that damn feline. Maybe you’d want to live a bit longer.”
“I love you as much as I can,” I promise in a fierce tone. Stirling rewards me with a sad smile that makes me feel about two inches tall. In a rush, I stammer, “You’re the only person I can st-stand to t-touch me so that must mean something, right?”
My loaded question hangs in the air. It’s dancing perilously close to a topic my family hasn’t discussed since the truth was exposed over two decades ago. Thinking about what happened makes my skin turn to flames, and before I start frantically swatting at my arms, our “twintuition” engages. My brother seizes me in a bear hug and wrestles me onto the bed.
Forcing me to turn my head to face him once he’s laying down next to me, Stirling sings, “One, two, three, four…”
He trails off after I begin reciting with him. By the time I reach nine, he’s able to let me go because the burning is manageable. I count to twelve twice more, this time focusing on bringing my breathing back to normal until I’m certain that I’ll be all right.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “You saved my ass. I owe you. Again.”
With a sharp nod, Stirling crawls off my bed and holds his hand out to me. I force myself not to hesitate and accept his offer straightaway. Once we’re back on our feet, he smooths down his suit pants, then hands me my dinner jacket. When I toss it on my bed, he rolls his eyes at my petulance. Slinging an arm over my shoulders, my twin pulls me into him so he can ruffle my hair. The flames flare up straightaway. I grind my teeth and recommence chanting numbers in my head until he lets me go three seconds later.
“Little brother,” he quips with a grin. I’m fourteen minutes younger—a fact he likes to drive home whenever he can. “That was nothing compared to what you’ve done for me over the years.”
Since that’s another subject we rarely discuss, I change the topic to something innocuous. “How are April and the kids?”
Stirling launches into a description of an ongoing argument about Roblox’s that his two children have yet to settle. He leads the way upstairs, chatting away easily while I do my best to fight off the dread that threatens to overwhelm me at the thought of coming face to face with our parents.
Every time I see them, someone ends up dead.
I mean, duh, I know what they keep me around for.
The problem is that it’s never me who they want killed.
“Magnolia can’t wait to see you,” my brother enthuses. Behind him, I roll my eyes. We both know I won’t be allowed in the same room as his five-year-old daughter tonight or any other night. “She’s drawn a picture of us. For once, I’m taller.”
I fake a chuckle. We’re identical twins. Same dark ash-brown hair, green eyes, symmetrical face with a strong, stubbled jawline, and Grecian nose. The only outward difference is that I measure in at six foot four, which makes me two inches taller. It’s a detail that’s irked Stirling since I overtook him a month before we turned fifteen.
“April made sure the chef prepared some vegetable dishes.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her.”
He turns back to me and winks, then continues up the stairs. “A vegetarian executioner. Your quirks never cease to amaze me.”
“Laugh it up, short ass, but the smell of meat makes me nauseous.”
In spite of my living situation—my apartment is located in the basement of the townhouse Stirling shares with his little family—I’m not invited upstairs often. To say there’s animosity between me and April would be an understatement. She made a pass at me about a month after she accepted my twin’s proposal. I turned her down, of course, and she’s never forgiven the insult.
My brother knows nothing about that, so it helps that my parents are also frequent visitors. It provides her with the perfect excuse for excluding me.
Not that it would make any difference.
April decreed that it wouldn’t be safe for me to be around my niece and nephew before they were even born… and Stirling agreed with
out raising an objection.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re widely known as a cold-blooded killer.
“You should see Parker now. He’s a little nugget.”
The contentment in his voice lifts a little of my angst and buoys me enough that I’m able to pull free my Trigger persona before we enter Stirling’s formal dining room. Impenetrable mask of indifference intact, I glance around the fancy room. Long table set with gold cutlery and expensive china and the walls dripping with overpriced art, the space is decorated with the type of expensive trinkets that come hand in hand with the power my family wields.
To some, I’m sure it’s something to aspire to… for me, it’s just a flimsy façade that fails to hide the blood and bones our wealth is built upon.
“Mom. Dad. April,” I greet them all as I take a seat at the far end of the table.
My father inclines his head. I repeat his action. When my mother reaches across the table, I sit back in my chair, so I’m out of her reach and concentrate on straightening my cutlery until she drops her hand into her lap. April sniffs, although it’s quickly stifled when I turn my head to her and lift my top lip in a snarl. She mutters some excuse and leaves the room. Looking up and down the rectangular table, I make eye contact with my father after Mom refuses to meet my inquiring gaze. He glares at me, then leans over to whisper soothingly to my mother.
Years ago, the way she’d get upset whenever I rebuffed her made me feel guilty because, no matter how fucked up I may be, I should be able to accept love from my own mom. That regret died the day she openly mourned the banishment of the monster who ruined me with his toxic version of physical affection and did nothing but make excuses for her lack of awareness of what was being done to me.
Nowadays, I bounce between praying for the freedom of death and dying to rain destruction down over their treacherous heads. It’d take a miracle to salvage our relationship.
