Page 24 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

“ W hat about this?” Penelope held up a gravy boat.

“It’s hideous!” I snatched it from her fingers. “It’s perfect .”

“You know,” Penelope hedged, “where I come from, people buy wedding gifts the couple will actually use.”

“That reminds me…I never got you a gift.” I held up a swan salt and pepper shaker set. The long necks intertwined when they were placed on the table. Somehow, the designer messed up, and the eyes were looking in opposite directions on the cob, while the pen’s beak was a bit too long.

And the store wanted a hundred bucks for the set!

“Don’t you dare,” Penelope gasped.

I grinned. I was so buying this for her.

Not only was I a trust fund brat, but I had my own fuck-you money.

Heaps of it. The swan ceramics would be delivered by courier.

They would be lavishly wrapped, with no name on the card.

Oh, I could just picture Alessandro Mancini’s face when he opened it, and Penelope’s dramatic eye roll—

“Annaliese! Yoo-hoo! Annaliese Hertz, is that you?” a nasally voice called out, drowning the tinkling bell above the door.

Turning carefully, babying my swollen, wrapped ankle, I grinned. This day just kept getting better and better.

“Darling! You’re back! I’ve been dying to see you,” I gushed, hobbling to the center aisle.

“I’m back. You’re back!” the woman whooped, arms flung above her head like she was cheering her favorite sporting team. “This summer can officially start now!”

The antique store owner frowned at the display of bad manners, peering over her prissy rectangular spectacles that sat on the tip of her nose.

But Janet Cummbers was the reigning queen of society, and it would take the apocalypse to dismay her.

She was almost ten years older than me and had managed the impossible feat of having everyone eating from her hand.

Her parents left her money, but no one knew the exact balance of her net worth.

That helped. But the brunette had a way of making people obey with a flick of her plump wrist.

Janet rushed to me and enveloped me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 as we exchanged a hug.

She was good fun.

In small doses.

“And who is this stunning creature!” Janet gushed, pushing me aside and grasping the startled Penelope’s hands. “My dear, you are the poster child for…well, I don’t know what, but you are! And I’ve discovered you!”

I fought hard to hold back the laughter.

“I’m Penny, ma’am,” my friend drawled, a thick country twang laced with Midwest slur seeping into her voice.

The pressure from holding back the laugh increased. I clutched my sides.

“What a darling little shop. I was just lunching with Monica and the gang when I saw you come here. So I extracted myself from the tedious meal to see what you were up to—and look! What a fun place.” Janet grabbed a pair of crystal wine goblets, flipped them over, then over again before slamming them onto the shelf.

The antique store owner nearly fainted.

“One of my college cronies is getting married this fall on the Riviera. I’m looking for the perfect wedding gift,” I explained with a sweep of my hand. “She’s eclectic, and this was the only place that would have something.”

“I see, I see.” Janet drew her attention back to Penelope. “It’s not you, is it?”

“No, ma’am.” Penelope smirked and held up her own dazzling rock. “I’m taken.”

“Goodness! That’s a stunner.” Jannet plucked my friend’s hand to take a closer look. “Are you local, dear?”

Penelope nodded. “Yup.”

“Transplant, though. South Dakota or Wyoming?” Janet peered closer at my friend, as if her eyesight wasn’t raptor sharp.

“North Dakota.”

Janet snapped her fingers. “ North Dakota. We always forget about little old North Dakota. Huh, I’m sorry, I should have known. Oh! Look at that!” She snatched a vase but quickly shook her head and plopped it back.

“Madame, if you are going to keep touching the merchandise, I must insist that you don’t slam it on the shelf,” the owner of the shop said icily.

Janet rounded on her. “You are in charge of the estate sales that collect these items?”

“Yes,” the owner responded. “We only go to ones in a certain price point.”

Janet hummed. “So if you want to continue to have access to the elite’s worldly goods after their demise, I suggest you improve your customer service. One word from me, and you’ll be out of business.”

“She can do it too,” I added, unable to help myself. “You heard of the Bistro Rotunda?”

The owner’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, my girl Janet here, put them out of business after the manager got lippy.” I shuffled a few steps and gave Janet a side squeeze.

Her tinkling laughter filled my ears. “Oh, that was a hoot! I only wanted them to sweep the sidewalk after an animal got into the city’s trash receptacle. You’d have thought I asked them to feed their patrons for free—oh! Speaking of demise.” Janet rounded on me. “I heard the most shocking thing!”

I grinned. “Do tell, darling.”

“Some billionaire tech tycoon, in town on business, was found dead in his hotel room.”

The world tilted.

Whatever else Janet was saying was suddenly covered by the rushing sound of water. My pulse beat wildly, my lungs stopped working. The lights of the shop dimmed.

“—and they’re claiming it was drugs. Which is funny because I never took him for that type. Of course, I only met him once.”

“Anna?” Penelope was suddenly in front of me.

“I need to sit down,” I gasped, reaching for a wicker stool.

“Not on that!” the shop owner yelped.

Janet gave her a withering look. “Watch yourself.”

Ignoring the scream from my bummed foot, I staggered to something more solid and plopped onto an embroidered cushion. The hand-carved settee groaned under my weight, but my legs refused to hold me any longer.

“I heard the billionaire was your friend, dearest. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Janet’s voice mercifully dropped an octave. “I can’t believe you didn’t already know! Your father printed the story this morning. Every gruesome detail.”

“Janet, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to help me pick out a gift for Anna’s friend. We’ll let her catch her breath, yeah?” Penelope swept the eccentric socialite into the chase.

I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling.

“Here.” The shop owner handed me a cold bottle of water. “If you spill on the settee, you buy it.”

“Thanks,” I croaked, uncapped the bottle, and sipped as my eyes scanned the news article.

The settee didn’t survive, because the next minute, I was choking and spewing water.

“David cut off his hand!” I tried to scream.

“Drugs make people do the weirdest things,” Janet agreed.

“And the gravy boat it is.” Penelope dropped a stack of cash on the counter, grabbed me under the arm, and, flagged by the still gabbing socialite, hauled me to the car.

***

I managed to drive back to my parents’ house. How, I had not the first clue. One minute I was in the shop, reading the gory details of David’s demise, and the next, I was here. Penelope really shouldn’t have let me drive. Not that I let her have a choice.

Clasping my dry throat, I limped into the kitchen. A maid, whose name I didn’t bother learning, because she would be fired in a few weeks when my mother deemed her unfit, greeted me with a smile.

“A package came for you, miss.”

I gave her a nod, took a bottle of unopened whiskey from the cabinet where my father kept the backups, and after plucking a water glass from the other cupboard, I slowly made my way to my room.

If the maid thought my behavior was suspicious, she minded her own business—a good quality if she wanted to survive here longer than most.

A pop filled the air as I uncorked the bottle’s plug. The sweet liquid gurgled into the cup, promising relief. I took a long pull, relishing the burn.

In a few moments, the buzz would calm me down, help me to make sense of the terrible feeling swelling inside. Once upon a time, I thought David could be a fresh start. That was right at first. I quickly realized he was all wrong, but I kept him around anyway.

And then he killed himself?

Was it me? I gulped. Air stuck in my throat, refusing to fill my lungs.

Clawing at my neck, I sagged against the bed. It wasn’t my fault—technically. Our few dates in Germany were nothing memorable. After coming back I didn’t talk to him except that one time, and then I ended it once I realized it wasn’t a good plan.

Only to drive him to an act of desperation.

“I won’t take responsibility for this,” I ordered myself. It wasn’t fair to me. I barely knew the man! “I never even asked his middle name.”

And yet I let him give me a ring.

Grinding the heel of my palm into my forehead, I forced myself to stop.

Whatever demons David dealt with, it was for the best that we weren’t more tangled than this.

We might have married, spent a few months—even years—together, but this kind of inner trauma had deeper roots than the rejection of a girl he barely knew.

“I’m going to be sad, but I’m not going to feel guilty.” That would be doing myself a disservice.

I shivered. He must have been struggling more than any of us realized. I sipped the rest of the whiskey as I retrieved a scissors from the bathroom. Approaching the package on my bed, I frowned.

There was no return address.

“No delivery address either,” I mumbled.

Setting the empty glass down, I eyed the package with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

It was rare that anyone would send me something without a purpose.

As the whiskey warmed in my belly, and with the happy prospect of a gift in front of me, I used both hands to pull the excessive amount of packing tape free.

It was the stench that hit me first. One waft, and I choked.

But my fingers were already fumbling with the flaps before the warning could register that this wasn’t something I wanted to open. One last tug, and the rotten cloud of death filled the air.

Inside the package was a severed hand.

The ground shifted under me as my stomach lurched. I stumbled backward and put my full weight on my bum foot. A strangled scream stuck in my throat. I grasped for anything solid to help myself, knocking over the glass, which bounced off the area rug and shattered on the hardwood floor.

Half collapsed on the table, I stared. The severed hand lay pale and bloated inside the box, fingers curled slightly as if reaching for something.

“Oh my lord,” I gasped, clapping my palm over my mouth.

I couldn’t look away.

My gaze studied the stub, eyes searing with every horrific detail. And then, recognition clicked.

“David,” I whispered as if the name would summon the prick.

It was clearly his hand. The engagement ring on his little finger caught the light, its massive stone glinting accusingly at me. It hadn’t been on my hand more than a couple of hours.

Now…it cinched his swollen finger.

Bile rose in my throat as the putrid smell filled my nostrils.

This wasn’t possible. David’s death was in the papers. His hand had been cut off during some drug-induced frenzy. But how was it here and—who would send me this? Why?

Those fingers weren’t reaching.

They were grasping.

The whiskey in my system made everything fuzzy, but I managed to pick up on that detail. Action spurred me forward. Using the scissors, which I was throwing away after this gruesome task, I extracted the slip of paper.

I didn’t want to touch it.

Using toilet tissue, I unfolded it.

This is what happens to men who touch you.

The signature at the bottom was worse than the devil’s calling card.

That did it.

My stomach heaved. I scrambled from the sink to the toilet, bending just in time. The contents of my stomach emptied. Tears streamed down my face as I retched, my body trying—and failing—to expel the macabre truth with the contents of my lunch.

When there was nothing left, I slumped against the wall and gingerly reached for my ankle. The rapid pulse made the area throb. But I hardly noticed. My skin was wet and clammy. My body trembled. There was only one person wicked enough to exact such demented vengeance.

The Tormentor.

It had been him.

I lay on the bathroom floor long enough to realize this was the next level in his campaign.

His abuse and violence had only ever been directed at me.

Even five years ago, when Mom tried to set me up with Paul Preston the Third or when I’d gotten involved with Leo the first time, there’d been no display of emotion toward another man—

“He was traveling abroad five years ago.” I smacked my head with the heel of my palm. That small detail slipped my memory until now.

Dropping my head back against the vanity, I focused on calming my racing pulse. The next step was clear. I had to dispose of the evidence. Fortunately, my chosen career gave me plenty of helpful suggestions on just how to do that.

With a manic laugh, I peeled myself off the floor.

When I set out to return to Chicago, I knew I would be using some of the tactics my heroines used to manipulate the situation to my advantage, but this had not been one of them.

At least being an author taught me how to hide bodies—or in this case, part of them.

I began to clean up the mess, promising the whiskey I was coming back to drown myself with it.

That was something my characters never needed to do.

“At least when this is all over, I’ll have a fresh perspective,” I muttered, knowing my next book would have a healthy dose of realism layering the already thrilling plots and chilling settings.