Page 11 of Dark Wishes (Dark Contract #2)

Selena takes a small sip of her coffee. I top my mug off, moving closer to the table, but not joining her there. “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky,” she says. “I really wasn’t. You were still sleeping, I figured I’d take the call without bothering you.”

“It’s fine.” I think about how I prowled my house with a kitchen knife—my voice remains tempered. “You don’t need to tell me everything.”

“I guess not,” she agrees, giving me a coy smile. “That wasn’t in the contract.” Her smile fades immediately; she can’t maintain it. “My mom is fragile. If I miss her call, she panics, and then her aid has to calm her down, it’s a huge mess.”

“Her aid?” I ask curiously.

“She’s in an assisted living facility.” Selena shifts in her chair, twisting the coffee mug. Her unease is plain as day.

There’s a twitch in my heart. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m angry.”

I reel back with my brow furrowed. “About what?”

“The reason she’s there in the first place,” she says with a miserable laugh. Shaking her head, she sweeps her hair back with her fingers. “My mom is one of the sweetest, kindest people I’ve ever known. There was no reason for my dad to hurt her the way he did.”

Her dad... I keep my voice cautious. “What did he do?”

That pained smile is back. “He abandoned her.”

She stares at her hands, not speaking, not drinking, but I know she isn’t finished. The crackle around her is electric—she's gathering herself, picking the right words.

My temptation to sit at the table grows. I resist. The distance is safer.

The fury in her pupils shrinks them to nothingness.

“My dad,” she says, “is a very rich man. When we were a family, we never wanted for anything. He insisted Mom not have a job, and of course she didn’t argue.

I was lucky to spend my days with her doing all kinds of fun things. It was genuinely perfect.”

This deluge of information is picked apart bit by bit. I don’t utter a word—I wait, I listen, for what comes next.

Selena tilts her head slightly, her blonde hair trailing over her left shoulder. “Dad loves perfect things. He told Mom she was perfect constantly . He wasn’t lying; I believed every word, and so did she. He didn’t treat her different until she broke.”

“Broke?” I repeat warily.

“That was his word, for the record. I didn’t think she was broken.

Dementia changed her, but she was still my mother.

She was still his wife.” Her faint smile cuts a ragged hole in my chest. “Until she wasn’t, I guess.

She could barely make sense of the divorce papers.

I had to help her. I took over entirely at that point.

I was just turning 18 when Dad moved out of the house, putting it up for sale without telling us.

The fucking coward couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as her.

Couldn’t find the balls to ask her to leave to her face—careful! You’re coffee!”

The cup has tilted away from me; my muscles are tense, quivering. Instead of crushing the cup, I gently set it on the counter and cross my arms, turning myself into a straitjacket. It’s all I can do to keep the cresting rage under wraps. “That’s awful,” I snarl. “What a piece of shit.”

Selena looks at me—really looks at me. She’s reading my expression, making sure I mean what I say.

“Yeah,” she agrees, “He is. The only good news was Dad didn’t cut me off from his money.

I think he was worried about losing me in the divorce.

I was pissed and planned to avoid him, but I’m not above pretending everything was fine.

Perfect daughters get flush bank accounts.

How else was I going to pay for Mom's care givers?”

That’s how she got the money for my contract, I realize. Another puzzle piece fits into place. That's two now to help me solve the picture of Selena... possibly three, but I can’t confirm the last. “Does he know you’re funding your mother’s care?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she snorts. “Dad would be furious that I made him feel like he abandoned her—which he did—and certainly stop giving me a monthly allowance. The deal was I leave Alaska, go to college, or no more money.”

“He wouldn’t let you stay near your mother?” I ask in angry disbelief.

“He values independence and education,” she says bitterly.

“But why move this far away?”

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, sorrow turning her eyes wet. “This was where Valoria lived. She was all I had.”

It’s like someone is dissecting my soul—the pain intense enough I double over. “I’m sorry I joked about you having no friends.”

“What?” Her eyes widen, then clarity returns to them.

I don’t deserve her kind smile. “Oh, stop it. I was the one who made that comment to you first. Anyway, my dad must suspect I’m lying by now—three years out here and I haven’t sent him anything about my grades?

But he’s too chicken-shit to confirm it. Works for me either way.”

“He’s never visited you?”

“I’m happy he hasn’t, I don’t need him in my life. Even if I wanted him to come see me, he’s always ‘too busy’ with work.” She rolls her eyes in her skull. “As if he isn’t rich enough to retire twice over.”

I tap my cheek lightly. “I’m curious what he does for a living.”

“Runs a law firm that handles oil contracts. That’s how he got such a tidy divorce in his favor; being a multi-millionaire is a privilege, but having a million powerful connections? That’s the real ticket.”

That’s something I can agree with. Money gives you access to many things, but people in high places will always be worth more. “I’m guessing this means he doesn’t know anything about your friend’s death. Does your mother know?”

Her eyes gloss over with pain. “Mom asks about Valoria like she’s still alive. I told her three different times about the suicide, then I just quit putting us both through the torture. She gets to think Valoria is alive and well. I’m envious.”

“Selena...” The urge to go to her... to wrap her in my arms, to hug her close and give her a space to release the tears building in her eyes... is immense. Last night we were closer than ever. I held her, tasted her lips, felt the echo of her voice. It was intimacy like none other.

I should be able to touch her.

I should be able to soothe the tension in her bunched neck.

Instead, I remain where I am, clutching my arms like they’re her body.

She sits up, downing her coffee, exhaling in an exaggerated way. “If you’re going to bring up Valoria, then let’s get to it. Take me to the bank so I can pay the rest of your fee and we can start figuring out how we’ll kill Caruso.”

It fascinates me how quick she is to put her armor back on. But she’s got the right idea—I don’t know what to say to her in these moments of vulnerability. I’m not built for therapy.

I’m built to kill.

A single night with this woman in my tangled sheets won’t change that.