Page 12 of Little Dark Deeds (Georgiana Germaine #12)

F ive minutes later , I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s car, listening to her hum along to Post Malone’s song “Sunflower,” which was playing on the radio.

“He always makes you feel a little bit better, no matter what kind of day you’re having, doesn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Post Malone.”

“I had no idea you were a fan of his music.”

“I’m a big fan. Harvey put all his songs on a playlist for me. I listen to it a few times a week, or more. His words, they’re good for the soul, kinda like that young lady ...” She snapped her fingers. “Shoot, I can’t think of her name just now ... Bettie or Billie something.”

“Billie Eilish.”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Now listen, I know you’re not one for surprises, but every once in a while, don’t you think it would be nice to relax and allow someone else to plan something for you?”

The mere thought ticked my anxiety up a notch.

“It’s been a rough day,” I said. “I just want to go home, open a bottle of wine, and quiet my mind.”

“And you will ... after we stop at a fun little place first.”

Looking out the window, we were getting farther away from Cambria, which meant I wasn’t going home any time soon.

Another fifteen minutes, and my mother pulled to a stop, parking in front of a business called Shatterdays.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“We’re in Morro Bay, of course.”

“Yes, I know what city we’re in. What is Shatterdays?”

My mother grinned, eyes glistening as she said, “It’s a rage room, a place people go to smash the living hell out of things. You ready?”

I’d heard of places like this, where people went to vent their frustration, work through their anger, or just indulge in a bit of fun. I wasn’t sure I was up to it. Whether I was or not, there was no way she was letting me sit this one out.

We exited the car and entered the building, choosing the “Break for Two” package amongst the list of choices.

It was a ten-minute experience that would allow us to smash and shatter plates, cups, wine bottles, and even picture frames.

We were handed a couple of baseball bats and bags containing face shields, hard hats, jumpsuits, gloves, and boots.

Then we were escorted to our own private room.

When the door closed behind us, my mother said, “Time starts now, better get smashing!”

I stood a moment, taking it all in, still feeling unsure.

“All right, then,” my mom prompted. “How about I start us out?”

Wielding the bat over her head, she walked to the other side of the room and unleashed on a series of wine bottles, sending shards and fragments everywhere. Witnessing the pure bliss she was in, I burst out laughing.

“That’s the spirit!” my mother said. “Now put some of that inner rage to the test and show me what you got.”

What started out as an activity I felt forced to participate in soon become an exercise I couldn’t wait to get in on. I took aim at a set of plates, smashing them to pieces, thinking about Tiffany and the killer, the plates representing his face.

It was like an addictive drug.

The more I smashed, the better I felt.

“Whoo-eee!” my mother shouted. “That’s my girl. Let it out. Let it all out.”

And I did.

“I’m angry,” I said.

“ Why are you angry? Talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

I moved to a pile of teacups, annihilating the entire row. “I want the killer to suffer, to die the same way she did—hurting and in pain.”

“Good, what else?”

“I want her back, even though I know I can’t get her back. And I want to rewind time, find a way to prevent the murder from happening.”

“You may not get to see her again, not in this lifetime, but you will catch the person responsible. When you do, you’ll make sure they never hurt anyone ever again. Tiffany will have the justice she deserves, and you’re going to get it for her.”

“Justice won’t bring her back.”

“Maybe not, but it will give you closure, her father too, I expect.”

“I don’t want closure.” I swiped at a wall of plates, sending every piece flying, then let my bat fall to my side. “I want her to be alive.”

I leaned against the wall, allowing my emotions to rise within me, as I faced them head-on. “I just ... I don’t know if I’m equipped to deal with it all right now.”

My mother narrowed her eyes, then walked over to me. “What are you saying?”

“As determined as I am to investigate Tiffany’s murder, Foley and Whitlock may be right about me letting them take the reins on this one.”

“Since when have you ever let someone else’s opinion stop you from doing what needs to be done?”

“I’m not in the best headspace right now.”

“My goodness. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

You’re tough, Georgiana, and you’re strong, even when you’re facing a mountain of obstacles.

You always find your way around, over, or through it.

Now isn’t the time to stop believing in yourself.

You may be married to Giovanni, but you’re still a Germaine, and we don’t back down from anything. ”

All day I’d felt a strange sense of disconnection from myself, almost like I was going against my nature, against the grain of who I was as a person.

It almost felt like I was outside of my own body, looking at a girl who in this moment had lost her way, her strength, her mojo.

It was a wretched, horrible feeling, and I wanted nothing more than to rid myself of it.

My mother placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Remember when Lark was kidnapped? You didn’t hesitate to return home and hunt down the man who’d taken her. You lit a fire in yourself. You did it then, and you’ll do it now.”

In the past, my mother had always worried about me investigating murders, to the point where she often tried to talk me into choosing a different career, one that wasn’t so dangerous. Today, she was the opposite—encouraging me in a way she never had before.

“I always thought you’d jump at the chance for me to be anything other than a private detective,” I said.

“I’m your mother, and I’ll always worry, but I’ve also always known you’re where you need to be, doing the exact thing you’re meant to do. It wouldn’t be right for me to hold you back. So, how do you feel now?”

“Different. Better.”

It was true.

I did feel better, and I felt something else ... something even more rewarding.

My fire was lit, and I was ready to catch a killer.