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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

PERRY

“What was that?”

Ever grunts and stills, looking around the dark room.

My ears prick, and I strain to work out if I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing. It’s hard to know out here. Everything feels so loud. The wind. The rodents that have made this place their home. Each scuffing footstep we take.

What sounds like muffled voices comes again.

“That? Did you hear it?”

“Nope.”

Fucking weird. I could have sworn I heard something, but maybe it’s the billion and one thoughts tearing up my brain. Ever knows what he’s doing, and I need to trust that.

I don’t like this much. It’s such a new and weird feeling to be so actively worried about someone. I fumble through life. I don’t think, I just do, and it’s gotten me to where I am and—other than the whole wanted dead thing—I like where I am.

My life is chill and cruisey and fun. And it will be all those things and more in some distant future where St. Clare and I can put this behind us and have awesome lives together. We just need to find this annoying, pesky, troublesome brother of his so I can have a few stern words with him about leaving us hanging and then introduce myself as his possibly new future brother-in-law. Which may or may not be getting ahead of myself, but what’s the point of being in a relationship if you’re not going to close your eyes and jump?

My ears prick as that sound comes again.

“I swear there’s someone here.”

Ever tilts his head like having one ear higher than the other will help him hear better. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I take a moment to listen again. “This way, maybe …”

I take a sharp right. We’re on the second floor of a huge warehouse, and other than packing boxes, machinery, and a room full of desks and computers, the place looks sparse.

It’s weird to think that we’re breaking and entering, though I maintain we haven’t broken anything since the place was unlocked, when I’m such an upstanding citizen most of the time. Well, when I’m not shooting at people and taking money for hypothetical kills.

I’m glad that my two victims before St. Clare had the good sense to stay hidden. I really didn’t want to have to explain to Luther that I actually botched all the jobs he’s given me.

We creep around another corner, and there’s still nothing. It doesn’t make sense. I would have put money down that I could hear someone, but the further we look, the less I can hear.

Did I imagine it?

I’d like to confidently say no, but I’m not so sure I trust my thoughts enough for that.

“How long have you been working for Luther?” I ask Ever.

“Hmm … maybe … five years now?”

“Wow.” I try to do the mental calculations on how many people he’s killed in that time, but then I give up and just ask him. “Do you know how many people you’ve killed?”

He chuckles. “I do. Zero.”

“Zero?” That perks me up. “Do you only pretend to kill them too?”

“No, Perry, that’s all you.” He throws me a look, and I can’t tell if it’s an amused or disgusted one. They really shouldn’t be similar enough to be confused. “I’ve never been hired to kill someone.”

“I thought you were a hitman?”

“You thought wrong. That’s Arlie. She’s one of the best. I’m the stage before her. Sometimes people are worth more alive than dead to whoever hires us. They just need a whole lot of persuasion and a whole lot less fingers.”

I stare at the gleam on his bald head. “You take their fingers ?” I hiss.

“How is that any worse than taking their lives?”

“It’s … well …” Okay, so I can’t really vocalize why it’s worse; I just know that it is. “You know …”

“I don’t.”

I scrape my brain for the logic I’m sure is there. “Shooting them is over instantly. They don’t know they’re in danger. They’re not in pain. It’s … nothing. Torturing is something they have to live with forever.”

“But at least they’re alive.”

I scrunch up my face, torn over the ethics of which is worse.

Then he chuckles. “How did the no-pain thing go for Reilly when you shot him?”

“Okay, but that was a onetime thing, and he still holds it against me. If I took his fingers on purpose, I’m confident he would have held that against me even more.”

“Good thing, then, that you’re not cut out for this life.”

I sigh pathetically. “I’m worried that I’m not cut out for any life. I haven’t found that place where I fit , you know?”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“You haven’t found where you fit yet . But there’s a place for someone like you, and I know you’ll find it.”

“At least one of us believes in me.”

“You’ve never seemed bothered about this before.”

He’s right. I’ve never seemed bothered because I’ve never been bothered, and I still don’t know why it’s tying me up so badly now. Is it really so unbelievable that I’d want to be more than a constant fuckup though? Maybe once, I’d like to be the capable guy who handles shit instead of bumbling along and—oh wow. I think I’m having an identity crisis.

Come to think of it, I probably should have picked up on this before now.

The signs were there.

I immediately seek out the comfort of my bracelet and try to channel my thoughts into something more productive.

“I don’t think I know who I am,” I say suddenly.

Ever eyes me. “Is this really the place?”

“Well, if not here, where? I don’t see us talking about anything else, and if we can’t search and talk at the same time, I really worry about your multitasking abilities.”

“My multitasking abilities are just fine.”

“Then help me.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Ever looks horrified. Horrified . The guy who turns fingers into spare parts. “My multitasking doesn’t extend to therapy sessions.”

Well, fuck. You think you know a guy, and then he’s not even there for you in a life-altering moment.

My head snaps to the side, and I’m successfully distracted as I pick up on a noise again. “Did you hear that?”

“I still have no clue what you’re talking about.”

I’m certain this time, and I pick up my steps like a greyhound on the hunt for blood. It was definitely this way, and I’m sure it was a voice. The further we walk, the louder it gets.

“Eight … seven …”

I glance back at Everett. “Someone’s counting.”

Both of us jog toward a bank of windows that look out over the warehouse floor, and it takes me way too long for my eyes to adjust.

There are people everywhere. A huge group surrounding two in the middle and?—

St. Clare!

My gut bottoms out, and I’m about to turn and run to him when Tommy moves so fast it’s hard to track him. He kicks St. Clare, who folds to the ground, and then—Tommy pulls out his gun and presses it to my man’s head.

The blood drains from my body so fast I swear I hear it leave in a whoosh that rings in my ears. Pure, blinding rage replaces it, and all I know is that Tommy is dead. He’s fucking dead .

My gun’s in my hand faster than I know how to move, and I lift it, line up my shot?—

Before it’s flung from my grip.

Ever crashes into me from the side, and at first, I think we’re under attack, but then reality hits me as hard as I hit the ground.

It’s just me under attack.

From Everett.

With strength I didn’t know he had, he pulls my wounded arm high up my back. The scream I let out is all but silence as the pain shoots through my whole body, and then his hand comes down tight and immovable over my mouth.

“Don’t make a fucking sound.”