by Lana Sky
Chapter Eight
I’ve been thrown away so many times.
This latest trip to the figurative dumpster should be nothing new. My own mother didn’t want me. What difference should the whims of a psycho billionaire make?
Not a one.
Despite knowing that, I can’t escape the pins-and-needles sensation stabbing at my spine, warning me that something isn’t right. This time is different. Psycho billionaires just don’t throw away their wayward pets who scratch too deep and leave a mark—no, they put them to sleep.
And every passing second feels like the tightening coil of a trap. I know it will spring without warning. Maxim will step out from the shadows and demand some cruel punishment for ever leaving him.
I’ll lose this twisted game.
In the meantime, I spend each night sleeping in an unfamiliar bed before wandering around an unfamiliar house to get the kids ready for school. A new private school they were mysteriously enrolled into, despite it being the middle of the fucking school year. I expect them to resent me for the change. To hate me for ripping them from the house—our house—without any real explanation.
Ainsley should be pouting.
Mikie and Daisy should be bitching about missing their old friends or their old neighborhood.
Ollie, Ray, and Eric should be pining for their old beds, their old rooms.
Instead, it’s like we’ve lived here all along. Like we weren’t fighting over scraps of pizza just a few weeks ago. Like they always could relax on their front lawn without worrying about some gangbanger cutting loose.
Survival is a funny thing.
“Frankie?”
I jump as a hand lands over my shoulder and the plate I’m holding falls back into the water-filled sink. It smacks the edge wrong and promptly breaks into a million expensive chunks of porcelain.
“Shit!” I shut the water off and try to fish the broken pieces from the sink, being careful to avoid cutting myself. The jagged edges are sharp. The slightest nudge with my fingertip causes a faint echo of pain. A hint of it—but a firmer nudge sends a tendril of agony shooting down my spine.
“Are you okay?” Daisy presses when I don’t acknowledge her right away. Little does she know, she just asked the question of the fucking day. “Frankie?”
“Yeah…sure,” I hear myself croak as my fingers plunge into the soapy water and clumsily grab at another chunk. It cuts me deeper this time and a brief flash of red fades through the water. “Why?”
“You’ve been washing the same three knives and plates for the past hour. And,” she adds, her voice quivering as she watches me wrench my bleeding hand from the water and shove it into the nearest dish towel, “That’s the fifth plate you’ve broken since you got here.”
“Oh.” I let the word hang there, a perfect summary of the past few days.
Oh, my fingers slipped.
Oh, I’m bleeding.
Oh, it doesn’t hurt.
“I’m okay,” I force myself to choke out when Daisy doesn’t move, her unsaid questions itching my skin. “It…it doesn’t even hurt.”
“Okay.” In her small voice, a heavy sigh somehow sounds louder than even the few times she manages to shout. “Well… I have to finish my homework…” Her eyes drift hopefully in my direction. “Are you busy?”
Busy. My brain toys with that word. Busy? For once, I’m not. I’m not scraping by at some shitty job for low wages. Or on my knees pleasing a horny stranger for cash. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to stay in the same house with the kids and not race to get ready for the next dead-end job.
“No.” I step away from the sink and wipe my hands on my shirt. “Sure… I can help.”
“Cool!” Daisy beams and I catch myself staring. It’s the first time I’ve really seen her smile in so damn long. “It’s just math,” she says, leading me to a section of the dining room, cordoned off by a pink backpack and a mound of books. “Algebra.” She rolls her eyes and gestures to an open workbook. “Think you can help? I hate equations.”
I scan the scrambled mixture of numbers and letters printed on the sheet and squint. Algebra? It’s like another fucking language.
“What about this one?” Daisy points to a cluster of symbols. “I need to solve for X but I have no idea where to start.”
“X?” I raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t math supposed to be about numbers?”
“Never mind.” Daisy closes her workbook and starts to shove it into her backpack. “I’ll ask Mikie—”
“No! I can help.” I practically snatch the notebook from her hands and flip to a random page. None of it makes sense. “I… Do you have a calculator—”
“I said it’s fine.” Daisy grabs her book but rather than put it away, she clutches it to her chest, eyeing me warily. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I croak. But I look away and eye the table rather than her. “You can ask me anything.”
“Okay… Well, you’ve been acting really weird lately, you know?”
“Weird?” I choke back a laugh. Weird, or just too fucking stupid to solve a math problem. “How?”
“Weird like bringing a scary guy home,” Daisy says. “Weird like moving us into a mansion overnight. Weird like—”
“Hey!”
I look over my shoulder and see Mikie there, a game controller in hand.
“You coming back?” he asks Daisy. “I’m about to crush this level.”
“Not yet.” She sighs again. “We were trying to do homework.” She’s still smiling, but it’s lopsided. Strained.
“I can help,” Mikie says, strolling over. “Let’s see it. Oh yeah, this shit is easy. X is twelve.” He pumps his fist in triumph. “Need help with more? Come on. I’ll help ya. I bet Frankie’s too tired for algebra anyway.”
“Thanks for trying,” Daisy says, following in Mikie’s wake. “Night, Frankie.”
“Night,” I echo, but when I finally turn around, I realize I’m alone. Which is a funny emotion to feel in a house with six other people.
Our new house isn’t the only change the kids have seemed to easily overlook.
Apart from Daisy, it’s like they don’t even see the battered, bruised excuse they have for a sister, either. I’m dripping blood, spouting off excuses like Band-Aids. The lies I tell to explain the injuries away are easily accepted, too—but with a catch. They avert their eyes and nod a little more than necessary, which is the same way I used to accept Melanie’s lies. The ones I was too damn tired to challenge. Even Mikie doesn’t question me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m still the same old Frankie. The same old nagging, sole-providing, fight-breaking, rule-setting fucking Frankie.
Barely five minutes go by without me having to separate Ainsley and Eric, clean something, fix something, or wipe something from the floor. I bust my ass to erase every speck of dust and dirt they leave behind.
Because we don’t really belong here.
I don’t belong here.
But at least money is the furthest thing from my mind now, right?
I try to tell myself that over and over, hoping that it might stick this time. Maxim may be a lot of things, but I don’t think liar is one of them, at least where finances are concerned. And if I am anything like my mother, I’ll milk him for all he’s worth for as long as I fucking can.
In the end, I last three days. Three damn days before the walls of the house start closing in. Three days before my own skin starts to shrivel around me. Three days that I can’t even fucking look at myself in the mirror.
I’m a sleepwalker in a dream, observing myself in the bathroom for cracks in my porcelain skin.
Then I hear it—a sound that shatters my daze: crying. Screaming.
“Frankie!”
Horror sends my stomach plummeting as I race downstairs into the entryway. “What’s wrong?”
I find Daisy huddled on the bottom step. Spotting me, she lurches to her feet, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
“What�
��s wrong?” I demand, grabbing her by the shoulders.
Her eyes dart to the front entrance and reality returns like a bitch-slap. We’re not alone.
Two men dressed in blue police uniforms guard the open door while another man in an impeccable suit stands in the middle of the room, radiating authority. Lucius.
My heart stops. Me. They’re here for me. Maxim may be a self-professed crime lord, but I’m not.
And I committed murder.
“Ms. Marconi.” Lucius steps forward, and his dark eyes laced with concern. “I apologize for this sudden—”
“She’s dead,” Daisy blubbers over him. “Mama… She’s dead.”
I blink. My first thought is who? It’s almost like one of those game show songs is playing as my brain slowly connects the dots. Mama. Mom. Mother.
Oh. Finally, my tongue wrings out a name. “Melanie?”
“Yes. They found her this morning!” Daisy wails against my shoulder. I have enough sense to throw my arms around her neck, holding her close. She’s still wearing her pajamas, her hair in two braids. “I-I don’t know how—”
“It’s best if we discuss this in private,” Lucius interjects. “In fact, I would have preferred to deliver this news myself.” He cuts his gaze to the officers.
“It’s an open investigation,” one of them curtly replies.
Like it’s that hard to guess the cause of death. I’ve had at least ten previous overdose scares to serve as a dress rehearsal for this moment. Some concerned passerby found her dead on a bench or in an alley, I bet. She slipped away high off her ass, without a concern to bother her pretty little head. My only consolation is that the kids didn’t find her.
“Go to your room.” I slide my arms from around Daisy and nudge her toward the stairs. “Go. I’ll be up in a bit. Everything’s fine.”
Even I can hear the lie in my voice. Still, she heads for the stairs, and Lucius moves to stand beside me, taking her place.
“I suggest you say nothing, Ms. Marconi,” he says.
“Is that really necessary?” One of the officers sighs. “We would just like to ask a few questions—”
“I suggest you direct all inquiries to Ms. Marconi’s legal counsel,” Lucius interjects. “I can facilitate a meeting, but as for now, gentlemen, I’m sure this family would like privacy.”
“I don’t think we can leave just yet.” The other officer steps forward, twisting a pen between his fingers, a notepad in hand. He’s young, with dark hair and piercing eyes. “Can you tell us the last time you saw Melanie Ryder alive, Francesca?” he asks. “We have a witness that claims the two of you had an argument recently. Can you elaborate?”
My mind goes blank, and I don’t know how to describe the emotion that washes over me. It starts in my stomach, pinching like hell as I try to identify it. “I—”
“I suggest you save the questions for another day,” a newer voice cuts over mine.
Both officers share wary glances before eyeing the newest figure to enter through the doorway. Dressed in black and shrouded in an ebony coat, Maxim Koslov exudes an aura of intimidation not even they can ignore.
“Sorry to interrupt.” His gaze passes over me, finding Lucius. They share a silent nod, and Maxim crosses his arms. “But if you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, I believe Ms. Marconi should process this devastating news alone.”
“This is an open investigation,” the man with the notepad counters. “I can’t just ignore protocol…”
Maxim doesn’t say a single word, but the officer grits his teeth and then shoves his pen into his pocket. “Fine.”
The other officer concedes with a curt nod. “Goodnight.”
As they leave, Lucius follows. “I’ll handle this,” he says to Maxim.
The door closes behind them and I’m trapped. Within seconds, his scent easily overpowers that of six kids and a nanny. Three days without him have strengthened it. My pathetic brain hones in on the chilling familiarity of it over all else. Primal, raw musk. As long as I breathe it in, there isn’t room for anything more.
“For now, I think you should avoid the police,” he says, his voice low—out of respect for the kids, I realize. “I wanted Lucius to tell you before they could.”
Belatedly, his words register—and what they reveal.
He wanted Lucius to tell me. Not him.
I cross to the other end of the foyer and eye the view beyond the window. It’s late, way past sunset. Storm clouds darken the ebony sky, and lightning flashes between them. Of all the days to die, Melanie sure picked a winner. Though, there goes my park bench theory; Melanie hated the rain.
A motel then, I surmise. They found her sprawled out in one with a needle in her vein. I’ve entertained that scenario as well, though not as often as the others—because a motel overdose means publicity. Her name might show up in the paper. Publicity means investigations, long and drawn out.
Investigations during which a dumb, worthless whore might say the wrong thing, casting suspicion on her billionaire client who relishes his privacy.
That’s why he’s here.
“I’m not going to say anything about that guy I…”
Killed. The word sticks in my throat. I still can’t say it out loud.
“I won’t go to the police,” I confess to the window. “That would bring my sister into it. I’d never do that to her.”
Even if I were spiteful enough to mention his name.
There. He should be satisfied…
But his footsteps don’t echo to signal a retreat.
“Do you need me to sign something?” I ask, wringing my fingers together. They’re shaking, and each nail nips at any bit of skin it can reach. A pinch here. A scratch there. I watch the blood bubble up from miniscule scrapes, but it’s strange. I feel nothing.
“No,” he says finally. “Lucius will handle your legal counsel.”
“Okay.” I sound like the perfect obedient hostage, meekly abiding by his rules. “Thank you.”
I turn to face him, ready to keep up my act. Go upstairs. Lock myself in my cage. Let him see how well I can play the role of damaged, unwanted toy.
But his face is all wrong. His gaze is solely focused on me, his posture rigid, his eyes unnervingly sharp. A million secrets lurk in them, daring me to question.
“How…how did she die?” I croak before I can bite the words back.
“She was stabbed. They found her in a home in Horn Hill. The coroner will rule it a homicide. There are no leads…” He trails off, a blond eyebrow raised. “Hearing this upsets you.”
No. I shake my head, unable to push a denial past my thickening throat. Upset? I’m not. Those aren’t tears searing my eyes. Just dust. He must have been sculpting before he came here. The air is fucking thick with heavy, cloying residue.
“What else?” I ask.
“They will not release her body for a few days, at least until the investigation is concluded. However…I believe it would be best to schedule a memorial service anyway. Closure for your siblings. If you’d like, I can make the arrangements.”
Closure. Siblings. My siblings.
The strangest thought makes me laugh brokenly. “You knew. Of course you knew!” Exhaustion robs my voice of its dramatic flair. I just sound fucking tired. “For how long?”
“Since yesterday morning.” He doesn’t even deny it. “She was initially a Jane Doe, but I had my suspicions. They identified her officially late last night.”
“But you didn’t tell me then. You were going to have Lucius tell me instead.” And not out of oversight. I’ve become well-versed in the nuances of Maxim Koslov lately. He does nothing without calculated interest. “Like I said, I won’t go running to the police. So you can stop pretending like you even give a shit—”
“You’re upset.” A warning laces his tone, soft like a trip wire waiting to be sprung.
“No.” I exhale, running my fingers through my hair. “I’m… You ended our contract. That means you don’t get to control—”
“I wanted to give you more time.” He grabs my wrist and I flinch as every nerve goes haywire beneath my skin. Zap!
It’s funny. Melanie always went back to heroin no matter how many fucking times she overdosed, and I hated her for it. But now, with his touch on my skin, I think I know why. Oblivion is so much better than cold, cruel reality—and it takes everything I have in me to pull away.
Even more shocking? He lets me.
“Time to what?”
The answer lurks in the tentative way he held me. Not hard and punishingly like I’m used to. Softer. Gentler. Comforting?
“Time to think.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to think!”
I need to act. Do something. Hug the kids, maybe? Call around for funeral homes. Normal people send out announcements when a family member dies, I think. Go figure, I can’t think of a single person to announce Melanie’s demise to. Maybe the deadbeat boyfriends eager to pay their last respects? Or all the bill collectors that will undoubtedly come calling? Or I bet she has a mound of debt waiting to be shackled to her next living descendant.
“Breathe—”
“I’m not upset.” My voice falls flat, echoing in the cavernous room around us.
Shadows stretch across the floor, swallowing us in their path. Thunder echoes beyond the walls, faint but distant. Like memories, in a way. Those old, blurry ones from my childhood, back when I might have felt something other than hate for Melanie. Something instinctual and pathetic that I assume every child has either nurtured or squashed by those around them. Love?
My love for her, if it ever existed, is now long gone. Dust.
Like the particles swirling in the air, making my eyes water and my throat constrict. This fucking dust.
“I’m fine—”
“Fine,” he says without argument.
My heart pounds harder. Thoughts race. Too many things battle for attention. Melanie. Death. Melanie. Funerals. Arrangements. The kids. Maxim. Maxim. Maxim…
“I’ll handle the arrangements,” he says, flicking the collar of his coat. “Goodnight.”
