Chapter 37 What’s in a Name?
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
LILITH
I hate being nice to people.
Even knowing how this is going to end for these people, the fact I have to go over there and pretend to be friendly makes my skin crawl.
I’ve been giving myself a pep talk for the duration of the short walk over here, and now I’m standing on the front steps, warmed pastries in hand, wishing I had a gun.
“This is fine,” I mutter to myself. “Everything is fine.”
I knock on the door, listening intently for movement before pressing the doorbell. Footfalls tap, tap, tap closer, the door swings open, revealing a tired looking blonde woman.
“Good morning,” I drawl, doing my best to be cheerful without coming off as slightly unhinged. “I’m new to the neighborhood, and just wanted to introduce myself.”
The woman at the door squints, then scans the street behind me, her expression suspicious. “I’m not buying anything.”
“Oh,” I respond, holding the sweet-smelling baked goods out in front of me. “I brought you some treats, no charge at all.”
She raises a brow, looks down at the basket, and then back up at me. “They’re free? Seriously?”
I nod, then laugh. “I wouldn’t mind trading them for a cup of coffee, but that’s not required.”
Adjusting my grip on the basket, I make sure she has a clear view of the expensive rings on my fingers, the Rolex on my wrist. Personally, I would call a stranger blinged out on my doorstep at 9 am a red flag, but greedy people are often too blinded by pretty things to worry about the possible threat they may be.
She looks me up and down for a moment, then swings the door open, steps to the side. “Well, I suppose I could make some coffee.”
I turn my smile up a notch, even as I grit my teeth, though I’m ecstatic that I’m one step closer to rearranging her face. From the look of her, she’s had some years of hard living, but I can still see the underlying air of money in how she presents herself.
Following her down the hall, I take a look around, surprised the place is so clean.
She leads me into a large kitchen, motions for me to put the basket on the table.
Setting the basket where indicated, I lean against the counter, watching her go about brewing two cups of coffee in her fancy machine.
Soon, she’s sliding a mug to me, which I take, though I have no intention of drinking any of it. She sits on a stool beside me, pulls the basket closer to her, leaning in to get a better look at what I brought.
Already sick of this nonsense, I half sit on the stool next to her and say, “So, Miranda…”
I let my sentence drift off, knowing from her sudden change in demeanor that she gets my point, loud and clear.
And she knows, I know she knows, she never told me her name.
Her hand grips the edge of the counter, panic on her face and I smile, knowing I’m going to enjoy making her wish she’d never been born.
“Where’s the girl?”
She glares at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you know what I’m talking about,” I respond, my tone low, eyes locked with her. “And I suggest you start talking before you end up in a very precarious position.”
She meets my gaze, unflinching, a smug smile curving her lips. “And what are you gonna do?”
My eyes drift to the knife on the counter as I reply, “Do you enjoy blood sports?”
A shadow in the doorway moves in my periphery, the telltale shape of a gun leading the way. I lunge for the knife on the counter, snagging Miranda with my free hand and dragging her off her chair, jerking her in front of me.
“What the fuck,” she cries, her hands gripping my hand where I’m pulling on her hair. “Let me go.”
A young woman steps into the room, gun gripped in both hands, pointed directly at me. She’s thin, unkept, the shadows around her eyes bleeding into her aura.
“Put the gun down,” I state, pressing the tip of the knife to Miranda’s carotid artery. “Or I’ll bleed her out.”
“Shoot her, Amber,” Miranda screeches. “Fucking shoot her.”
Amber stares at me, wide-eyed, and I’m surprised by the lack of emotion on her features. She’s close enough it wouldn’t take much for her to hit me, even if she had to graze her mother in order to do so, but she hesitates. Again, Miranda shouts, “Shoot her, Amber.”
Amber sighs, lowers the gun slightly as she asks, “Why should I?”
My brows lift in surprise, and Miranda freezes in my grip. “What?”
Amber waves the gun up and down as she says, “Why should I shoot her?”
Miranda’s body vibrates with rage. She lets out an ear-pierced shriek and then lunges forward, wrenching herself out of my grip as she shouts, “You ungrateful little bi—.”
Bang.
For a moment I remain in place, paralyzed, then I’m scanning down my person, looking for the bullet hole I can’t yet feel. Seeing nothing, I look up again, watching as Miranda wobbles then drops to the ground.
I blink at her prone body, genuinely surprised by what’s transpired in the last few minutes. Blood begins to pool beneath Miranda’s body. I glance at Amber, now standing a few feet from Miranda, staring down at her blankly, gun hanging loosely at her side.
“You gonna put that down?” I ask, inching closer.
Amber slowly lifts her head, her eyes slightly glazed over. “What?”
I point at her hand. “The gun. You gonna put it down?”
She lifts her hand, frowns at the gun, as if she forgot she holding it.
She holds it out in front of her, as if she’s offering it to me, so I move closer, slowly, until I can take it from her.
I clear the chamber, release the magazine, then set it all on the counter before turning back to her and asking, “Why’d you do that? ”
She lifts a shoulder then sighs. “Why not?”
Narrowing my eyes, I move to stand directly in front of her, searching her eyes for some kind of duplicitous motive. There’s nothing there, just darkness. Then she adds, “If I hadn’t done it, she would’ve called for the others.”
“The others?”
She nods, walks around me to the counter, pulls a button from beneath it. She holds it out to me, so I take it rather gingerly as she says, “Press this and they’ll come.”
“But who are they?” I ask, but she just shrugs, so I continue, “Are they bad people?”
Her gaze drops, but she nods. I move in close, stooping over so I can catch her eyes. “Do you wanna shoot them too?”
She smiles and replies, “Yes.”
One to always appreciate a good bout of revenge, I return her smile, but then I say, “Not sure I can arrange that, but I can arrange for them to get picked up and taken care of. Would you like that?”
Her smile falls, but she nods again. I step back, retrieve my phone from my jacket pocket and call Mickey. He answers silently, and I say, “Surround the place. We’re going to have visitors. Get ‘em at the door.”
I end the call without waiting for a response, certain Mickey will have it handled without discussion or further instruction. Then I hold the button up in front of me, and press it.
Amber’s eyes widen, a shiver rolling over her. She glances over her shoulder, so I say, “Don’t worry. They’ll never make it inside.”
She relaxes, a shuddering sigh expelled at the same time. After a moment, I ask, “Where is she?”
Amber gives me a slightly vacant look, and for a moment I think she’s going to make me ask again. But then, points a thumb behind her as she replies, “Basement.”
“Show me,” I retort, grabbing her wrist as I walk by, dragging her in the direction she indicated. She only hesitates for a moment then comes willingly, taking the lead once we enter the hallway. She opens the second door on the left, reaches in, turns on the light, revealing a rickety stair case.
Amber heads down, not even looking back, so with a shrug, I follow her down, coming to a stop beside her at the bottom of the stairs. It’s a large room, concrete floor, random piles of stuff strewn about.
“This way,” Amber says. I follow behind her as she walks toward the far side of the room.
I raise my brows, look around. “Where is she?”
Amber’s expression turns sad, her eyes haunted. Her hand lifts and she points at the blanket covered box in the corner. “She’s there.”
“Why,” I seethe, rage seeping into my veins as I eye the filthy looking blanket. “Is she in there?”
Amber shrugs. “She lives there.”
“Lils,” Mickey bellows from above, followed by heavy footfalls. I don’t bother responding, knowing they’ll clear the floor and be down here quickly, which is good because I’m so mad I could spit nails.
I glare at Amber, working hard to stop myself from kicking the ever-loving shit out of her.
My initial impression of her is that she’s just another victim of her deranged mother, but that doesn’t change the fact I think she should’ve been able to do something, anything, to at least prevent the child from living in what equates to a dog crate in the basement.
Not even a minute later, the door at the top of the stairs open, then boots hurriedly thump down until Mickey pops into view.
It only takes a moment for him to spot me, and he walks over directly, eyeing Amber as he says, “We got them all. Do we need to call a cleanup crew to tend to the mess in the kitchen or are we calling the Canadian authorities?”
I nod toward Amber then respond, “Since she did it, we can call the police. Let this be their problem.”
I give Amber another hard look, wanting to ask her some serious questions but knowing there’s no time for that now.
Finally, I turn to Mickey and say, “Get her out of here,” and then watch as Mickey grabs her, hustles her toward to stairs.
I close my eyes, listening to their departure, breathing a sigh of relief as they move farther and farther away and then I’m surrounded by silence.
I give myself a moment to center myself, knowing this next part is going to require every ounce of patience I have. Because it’s going to wreck me. It’s going to enrage me. And this innocent little girl can’t know.