Page 253 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

“No, I didn’t,” she agrees, crossing her arms. “So why do you care about this cat so much? I would’ve thought you might have more on your mind than finding a pet-sitter.”

I consider my words carefully. This could be my opening, my chance to feel her out. “I don’t think innocent things should suffer because of the machinations of powerful, dangerous people,” I say, stroking Princess’s soft fur. “It’s not her fault that the world around her is fucked up.”

I hesitate, then add, “That’s why I couldn’t kill Celine either. She didn’t deserve it, no matter what Elliot wanted.”

Imogen’s face is still perfectly composed, but something shifts in her eyes. Understanding, maybe? Or maybe it’s pity.

“Well, aren’t you just a little saint?” There’s some obvious derision in her tone, but less bite than I expected. “How does it feel to stand on your moral high ground and judge the rest of us for being so heartless?”

“I’m not judging anyone,” I say quietly. “I’m just trying to make choices I can live with.”

“Choices?” She barks out a sharp laugh. “What fucking choices? Have you already forgotten what almost happened to you for choosing not to complete a votum?” She paces the room in her designer slippers. “None of us have real choices here, Quinn. You proved that yourself.”

I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.

“We all have to play the game,” she continues. “We dance to Malcolm’s tune, fighting for scraps of his approval like starving dogs and jockeying for position. One wrong move, one word out of line, and it’s a knife in your chest. Or worse.”

She stops suddenly, seeming to realize she’s said too much. Her eyes narrow on me. “Why are we talking about this? I thought you came to see the cat, not discuss Syndicate politics.”

But I caught that flash of bitterness when she said Malcolm’s name. Just like I caught the fear beneath her anger.

I stand up slowly, letting Princess jump down to the floor. “Maybe I just wanted to know if I was the only one who feels like I’m slowly suffocating in this arrangement.”

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. That she’ll tell Malcolm about my little fishing expedition the minute I leave.

Then her lips curve into a humorless smile. “Honey, we’re all suffocating. Some of us have just gotten really good at holding our breath.”

That unguarded moment of honesty gives me the opening I’ve been waiting for. I settle back down, and Princess immediately jumps into my lap like she belongs there.

“Why did you join in the first place?” I ask as I scratch under the cat’s chin. “If you knew what you were signing up for—what Malcolm might ask you to do—why become part of the Syndicate at all?”

She hesitates, and for a second I think I’ve pushed too far. But then she walks to a small bar cart in the corner of the sunroom and pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass.

“Would you like some?” she asks, holding up the bottle.

“No, thank you.” I shake my head. “I need to keep a clear head around Malcolm.”

Something like understanding flashes in her eyes. She downs half her drink in one go, then stares out the window at the Detroit skyline.

“I didn’t exactly volunteer,” she says, finally. “Malcolm offered me membership after he had my sister killed.”

“What?”

A small sigh escapes her lips. “It’s a long, sordid story. I won’t bore you with the details. The fact of the matter is that he offered me a place at the table to make up for her death.”

“Jesus,” I whisper. “And you accepted?”

“What choice did I have?” Imogen knocks back the rest of her drink, her eyes glittering with unshed tears or rage.

Maybe both. “If I refused, I’d be joining my sister in the ground.

But if I said yes, at least her death would mean something.

At least I could build something from it.

” She sets down her empty glass with a sharp click. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“I don’t know,” I admit honestly. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Sure you can. You’ve been in the game long enough to understand how it works. Your father must have made the same choice when Malcolm gave him his marker.”

The suggestion takes me by surprise, but only for a moment, and only because it hadn’t ever occurred to me. “No, I don’t think that’s how it went down with my father.”

Now it’s her turn to look surprised.

“You don’t know, do you?” She lowers her voice as she steps closer. “The only way into the Syndicate is through blood. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”

“No, my father was invited because of his growing influence in Detroit. Because of what he built with Enigma.”

Imogen shakes her head slowly. “That’s not how Malcolm operates. He doesn’t invite people in because they’re successful. It goes deeper than that.”

It feels like my whole world just shifted beneath me. Princess jumps down from my lap as I stand abruptly.

“That can’t be right,” I say. But deep down, I know she’s telling the truth.

“Think about it,” Imogen says, but not in the harsh, dismissive way she was talking to me earlier. “In our hearts, underneath all the bullshit, we’re all the same. We all joined to make someone’s death mean something.”

I think about my father—the man who raised me, who built Enigma from nothing, who loved me fiercely until the day he died.

Who was he mourning when Malcolm came calling? Whose death was he trying to avenge?

“No.” I shake my head, but the denial feels weak even to my own ears. “My father would have told me if?—”

But would he have? He protected me from so many things over the years. I didn’t even find out about the fucking marker he tattooed on my body until after he died. So it’s not like this is the first time I’m wondering what else he never got around to telling me.

Princess winds around my ankles, meowing softly, but I barely notice. My mind is racing, flipping through memories, searching for clues I might have missed.

“I have to go,” I say suddenly, nearly tripping over the cat in my hurry to reach the door. “I need to…”

I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. What do I need? Answers. The truth. Something solid to stand on when it feels like everything I know is suddenly falling apart.

Imogen follows me to the door and gives me a surprisingly sympathetic look. “Quinn, wait. Look, I didn’t mean to drop all of this on you. I just assumed you knew.”

“It’s fine,” I say automatically, even though this whole situation is anything but fine. “Thank you for taking care of Princess. And for… for telling me the truth.”

She hesitates, then reaches out and gives me a half-hug that’s brief but still comforting. “Be careful with what you do with that truth. Malcolm doesn’t like people asking too many questions.”

It’s a warning that I know firsthand to be true. I nod stiffly, then hurry out the door before either of us can say anything else.

In the elevator, I lean against the wall and wonder again who my father lost and why the hell he never told me.

Fuck, will I ever live long enough to learn all the secrets that died with him?