The next day, I showed up at work in a coffee-stained dress and with bloodshot
eyes. I'd called Sailor, swallowing my pride and doing what I promised not to do
—ask her for a loan. But before I could even utter out the request, she told me
she'd been feeling suspicious cramps in her abdomen, and I couldn't bring
myself to ask.
I spent my lunch break calling every cash loaner in Boston. Most hung up on
me, some laughed, and a handful expressed their regret, but said they'd have to
pass on my business.
I even tried calling Sam Brennan. I was met with an electronic message
asking for a code to get through to him.
I didn't have access to the most mysterious man in Boston.
Though I grew up as his younger sister's best friend, I was as invisible to
him as the rest of my friends.
Belle was at work when I got home. I was glad she was because a box waited
outside her apartment door. The parcel was addressed to me, so I opened it.
There were two pieces of lingerie inside.
I picked up a black lace thong, realizing inside the lingerie waited a bullet.
Byrne.
I ran to the bathroom, throwing up the very little I'd eaten.
Shoving a sleeve of crackers into my mouth, I swallowed a small chunk of
cheese, and washed them down with orange juice.
I crawled into Belle's bed, still in my work dress. It was cold and empty. The
rain knocking on the window reminded me of how alone I was.
Mom and Dad had moved to the suburbs a couple of years ago. Moving in
with them now would invite trouble to their doorstep—deadly trouble—and I
couldn't do it to them.
Sailor was married and having a baby, running a successful food blog and
training young archers as a part of a charity foundation she started. Her life was
full, complete, and good.
Ash was busy coming up with schemes to win Sam Brennan over, going to
med school, and blossoming into one of the most fantastic women I'd ever met.
And Belle was making a career for herself.
Lying still in the darkness, I watched through the window as Lady Night
went through all her outfits. The sky turned from midnight to neon blue, then
finally, orange and pink. When the sun climbed up Boston's high-rise skyline,
inch by inch like a queen rising from her throne, I knew I had to make a
decision.
The sky was cloudless.
Auntie Tilda wasn't going to help me get out of this one. It was my decision
to make. My responsibility.
Silence buzzed through the apartment. Belle hadn't returned home last night.
She was probably inside a handsome man's bed, splaying her curves like a work
of art for him to worship.
Scurrying out of bed, I padded barefoot into the kitchenette, then flicked on
the coffee machine and Belle's vintage radio. The same eighties station that
never failed to lift my spirits belted out the last few notes of "How Will I Know"
by Whitney Houston, followed by a weather forecast, warning about an
impending storm.
There was a vase full of fresh roses on the counter, courtesy of one of the
many admirers who frequented Madame Mayhem in hopes to capture my sister's
interest.
Flower Girl.
I plucked one of the white roses. Its thorn pierced my thumb. A heart-shaped
blood droplet perched between the petals.
"To marry or not to marry Boston's favorite villain?"
I plucked the first petal.
Marry him.
The second one.
Don't marry him.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The fifth…
By the time I reached the last petal, my fingers quivered, my heart drummed
fast, and every inch of my body was covered in goose bumps. I pulled the last
petal, the snowy color of a wedding gown.
Fate said the last word.
Not that it mattered as my heart already knew the answer.
A decision had been made.
Now I had to face the consequences.