“What an adorable little pistol,” Micah muses. He checks the chamber and then takes out all but one bullet before putting the gun and the loose bullets back into my purse. “Every woman should have protection,” he says. “Of course, both Javier and I have our own guns. Tell me, do you think that if we were enemies you would be able to shoot one of us and then reload before the other shot you?”

“Of course not, but it’s a silly question, Micah,” I whisper. “I would never attempt to do something like that. We’re friends.”

“Yes, Sweet,” he says, patting my knee. “We truly are.”

chapter twenty-five

It’s almost two in the morning. I should be home. I should be restrategizing. I’ve put years into this plan, and I cannot just sit back and allow Micah to screw it all up. I need to think! And when Micah dropped me off back at my apartment that’s what I tried to do. I tried to think. I tried to focus . . .

. . . but I couldn’t stop shaking.

If Micah doesn’t think the Gables are methodically violent, then he doesn’t know them. Of course, it’s possible that they hired a hit man to kill Foley, but they were definitely the ones behind the murder. But then, Micah isn’t interested in the truth. He’s interested in his business. And he knows that I’m not in the position to question him.

At least not to his face.

And if . . . no, not if, when I proceed with my plan, will Micah find out? What will he do to me? Will there be pain?

He’s right about one thing: I’m not afraid of death. But I am not so ambivalent about the process of dying.

There have been lots of moments over these last few weeks when I’ve felt anxious, maybe even a little scared. But tonight, when I sat between Micah and Javier, I was frightened. And I haven’t been frightened since the night they took my mom away.

When that policewoman first delivered me to the social workers, I had been desperate for the comfort of my mother’s arms. But I was told that was impossible. So I remained frightened until I began to believe the lies of strangers. All those liars, the ones who told me that my mother was a villain? The ones who convinced me that I should blame my mother for everything? They cleansed me of my fear and baptized me in anger.

And I was reborn.

But now the fear is back, and in that fear I feel traces of my former self. I want comfort.

And this time I’m not that little girl, and I can have it.