Page 13 of Cannon (King Family Saga #3)

Queen

An hour later I pulled up to my mother’s house in Long Island and just… sat there.

The two-story with its white shutters and manicured lawn looked picture-perfect, but it froze me in place. I didn’t want to go inside.

To the neighbors, she was an eccentric, well-dressed widow with a taste for fresh flowers and a talent for entertaining.

But I knew better. I’d grown up inside the chaos of her lies.

She’d been a scammer long before Instagram made it fashionable, running credit card numbers from our kitchen table, bouncing checks like it was an Olympic sport, charming lonely men into paying her bills in exchange for “companionship.”

The worst part? She used me.

She once raised money at churches for my “cancer.” She’s run scams claiming I had rare diseases, disappearing the second she got the money.

I’ll never forget the day she shaved my head and eyebrows, dusted my skin with makeup to make me look pale and sickly, and bought a wheelchair to seal the performance.

I was the centerpiece of her grift, and I hated every second of it.

But I was a kid. She was my mother. What choice did I have?

And one of those scams, a petty one, ended with me killing a man. I was only eleven. She tells me I was protecting her, but I know the truth. She tricked me. And no matter how many years pass, the memory still cuts.

The way his eyes looked in those last seconds.

The way the silence felt afterward.

It haunts me every damn day.

We’d spent my childhood bouncing between apartments with eviction notices on the door and penthouses with champagne in the fridge, depending on how good her last lick was. My mother could make you believe anything, until the money ran out.

This house, though? It wasn’t hers. Not really.

It belonged to her latest conquest, a rich man who thought she was a breath of fresh air in his stale, predictable life.

He had no idea she was the storm. His heart gave out, and she got the house and a cushion of money. For now, her scams were on pause.

I lifted my gaze to the upstairs window. She was pacing, her silhouette wild and frantic even from here. Of course she was. My mother didn’t know how to exist without drama.

I finally forced myself up the walkway, each step heavier than the last. The front door swung open before I could knock.

She stood there, framed by the doorway like she was making a grand entrance on a stage that didn’t exist. My mother.

Even now, she was beautiful, skin glowing like it caught the light on purpose, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, her hair swept into soft waves that made her look like she’d just stepped out of a Diahann Carroll photograph.

She was draped in a silk robe patterned with gold cranes, cinched at the waist, a diamond brooch winking at her collar.

Red lipstick. Perfume so thick it met me at the threshold.

It was ten in the morning.

Only my mother could look ready for a gala in her own living room.

“Queenie!” she cried, like she hadn’t seen me in years instead of last week. She clutched her chest and swayed a little for effect. “You won’t believe what happened.”

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. “What now?”

Her eyes darted like she was afraid someone was listening. “I saw him. Yesterday. On the street.”

My stomach tightened. “Who?”

“The man,” she whispered, as if the word might burn her tongue. “The one you killed.”

I stared at her, pulse in my ears. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw him,” she insisted, gripping my arm. Her nails dug in. “He came right up to me. He said he knows what we did and that he’s coming for us.”

I took a slow breath, trying to stay calm. “You’re hallucinating. When’s the last time you took your medication?”

Her face hardened. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ma—”

Before I could finish, her hand cracked across my cheek. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room.

Something in me snapped. My own palm came up fast, connecting with her face before I could think. The shock on her face almost matched my own.

We stood there, breathing hard, glaring at each other like strangers.

“Don’t call me anymore,” I said, my voice low, steady. “Not for this. Not for anything.”

I turned and walked out, her perfume still clinging to me like smoke.

Outside, the air felt colder. I headed for my car, wanting nothing more than to slam the door and be gone. But when I reached it, my stomach dropped.

There was a piece of paper tucked under the wiper.

I pulled it free, unfolding it with shaky hands. Four words, scrawled in thick black marker:

I know what you did. And you’re gonna pay.