27. Dove
California sucks.
Well, at least the northern part does.
It’s so isolated I have to take an extra flight from a bigger airport just to reach the town where Wren’s mother whisked him away in high school. And I’m not a snob about accommodations, but there’s only one hotel with vacancies.
ONE.
Who is visiting this place?
It shouldn’t be you, that’s for sure.
As I drive through a town that looks abandoned—neglected stores and vacant streets—I release a long sigh and tap my heart-themed nails on the steering wheel.
I shouldn’t be here.
But they say revenge is a dish best served cold .
And I am cold. Or… I was because Wren decided to fuck off with Hunter for the weekend, leaving me to sleep alone.
Technically, the saying means you’re supposed to think about extracting revenge for it to be carried out in the best way. Plan. Prepare.
Not hop on a plane the second your boyfriend is out of town to murder his disgusting pedo mother.
A knot tightens in my gut as I recall everything Wren confided in me. He’s still harboring so much animosity. Is it fair to take away his opportunity for closure? Should I have discussed this with him first?
I took my revenge when I was ready. But I needed the chaos, the violence—an outlet for all my pent-up rage.
I love my sweet songbird, but what he needs is four walls and someone licensed to help him start his healing journey.
Is that really your call to make, Turtle Dove?
I have a love-hate relationship with the fact that I can hear him at any given moment, as though he were really right beside me. It’s become constant when he’s not near. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times it drowns out my intrusive thoughts, and I need those to carry out my justice-seeking duties.
At a red light, I check my phone. Wren hasn’t replied since I messaged him the second I got off the plane. It’s late afternoon there, and all he’s sent today is a simple I love you .
That’s… not like him.
If necessary, I’ll fly all night, even if it takes four layovers, to make it back to New York before he gets home in the morning.
The town Wren grew up in isn’t the typical place you think of when you hear California. The roads are dusty, cracked, and riddled with potholes. The houses are sturdy but rundown, desperate for a good power wash. I do like that they’re not stacked on top of each other, though.
It took some digging, but I found a floor plan for the home Wren’s mother, Robyn, rents. There’s a basement below ground, and the house sits on a corner lot, meaning there’s extra space on both sides.
No one will hear her scream.
See? I did plan a little.
And it seems my luck just keeps rolling in.
My rental creeps toward the gaudy red garage with two vehicles parked outside. I plan to drive by a few times, then stop and ask for directions like I’m lost. But half a block away, one of the cars pulls out. I’m too far away to see the driver, but I pick up speed, trailing the light blue Camry as it heads toward the main street.
A little more time to study my target won’t hurt. My research didn’t indicate Robyn is seeing anyone .
You should’ve grabbed the license plate on the second car.
I can worry about that later, though. I follow the Camry to the local grocer, parking a few spots down on the opposite side of the row. I have to choose a place with a few empty spaces so I can back in. As a New Yorker, backing up and parallel parking are not my strong suits, so I need a spot with some breathing room.
I watch as Wren’s mother steps out. Seeing her in person is surreal, after scouring the internet for the handful of photos that exist. Robyn Campbell is beautiful, though I loathe to admit it. I understand why Wren thinks we look alike—same wheaty blonde hair, similar blue eyes.
Though in height, I’m the equivalent of Bilbo Baggins, and she’s Gandalf.
Don’t do Gandalf dirty like that, Dove.
It must be where Wren gets his size from unless his good-for-nothing father is also as tall as a giraffe.
I stay a few steps behind as she grabs a cart and sets her beige crossbody in the baby seat. Robyn looks like every other middle-aged woman. Shopping for groceries, smiling at everyone who passes, and stopping to chat with people who greet her by name.
An upstanding citizen, fooling everyone with her charm and good looks. No one would ever guess a monster lurks beneath her painted face.
Wren’s initial reaction to me makes so much more sense now. He knew a monster when he saw one.
To stay inconspicuous, I steer my cart down an aisle, nerves fraying each second Robyn is out of sight. A relieved breath exits my lungs as I round the corner to see she’s now coming down the same aisle the opposite way.
I grab a random can of pasta sauce and throw it in my cart along with—I check the bright orange box—chickpea pasta.
Huh. Sounds gross.
Robyn pays no attention to me as I sneak up beside her humming a tune I don’t recognize, a dreamy look in her eyes as she browses canned tomatoes. Her purse sits open, her phone peeking out—easy pickings for any pickpocket worth their salt. I slow my cart beside hers.
“Excuse me?” I lace my voice with sugar. “Could you grab me a few cans of diced tomatoes with basil, please? The brand with the yellow label?”
Robyn perks up, snapping from her daydream. “Of course, honey. How many?”
“Oh, four would be lovely. Thank you.”
As she busies herself with that, I scan the aisle to ensure no one’s watching. I slip her phone from her bag, flick it to silent, and shove it in my purse.
She turns, arms full of cans. The moment her gaze lands on me, she falters, nearly dropping them. I snatch two before they hit the ground. “Thank you so much. They make it hard for us short people sometimes.”
Robyn stares, eyes wide, brows dipping like she’s trying to place where she knows me from.
She doesn’t. She can’t. Wren and I aren’t social media official, so if she’s keeping tabs on him that way, she’d never make the connection.
“I’m so sorry.” She laughs, shaking her head. “You just look so much like me. Wow! It’s uncanny.”
Duh, Dove. That’s why she was staring at you like she saw a ghost.
“We do look similar, don’t we?” I chuckle and shrug my shoulders. “They say if you’ve seen one blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman, you’ve seen ‘em all.”
Robyn lets out another loud laugh. “Too right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be awkward.”
“Oh, gosh, you’re fine.” I wave her off. “Thanks again. Have a nice day!”
Before she can respond, I beeline for the checkout with the items that I don’t—and will never—need. Is chickpea pasta even a thing in New York? Or is it a California thing ?
Wait… it’s a gluten thing, isn’t it?
Ugh. If I’m eating pasta, I want the real deal. Isn’t there a grain-free flour that makes better noods?
Dialing Bunny, I slide into my car. “Did you know chickpea pasta exists? Please tell me you find that as gross as I do.”
Her answer is a tummy grumble that I can hear clear through the phone before she releases the most disgusting belch I’ve ever heard from her. “Chickpea pasta fucks up my stomach. It’s not that bad, though,” she says weakly once she’s exorcised her inner gaseous demons.
“What was that?” I snort a laugh as I drive away, intent on finding the elusive In-N-Out that Wren has on a pedestal. He claims they have the best burgers ever.
He’s wrong. When it comes to chains, Shake Shack does, and no one can change my mind about that.
But… when in Rome…
“I think that pizza we ate yesterday was bad. I’ve been sick in bed all day.”
I feel fine. Maybe she caught a stomach bug.
“Oh, poor baby. Why don’t you ask Hunter to bring you some soup when he gets home tomorrow? Maybe he can kiss it and make it better,” I coo in a baby voice .
Bunny stays quiet for a beat before an irritated sigh fills the speaker. “I did,” she laments softly.
“Wow. You must really feel bad. DoorDash would have had it there way faster than Hunter. Duh.”
The bright yellow arrow I’m looking for catches my attention, and I turn on my blinker.
Found it! Now, what did Wren say? I need to try it animal style?
“He said, and I quote, ‘Sorry you aren’t feeling well. I’m not in town, but even if I were, I don’t want to get sick.’” She blows a raspberry.
“Whoa. What’d you do to piss off Detective Dick?” I cover the speaker as I place my order.
“Are you getting In-N-Out? Oh my god, fries and a shake sound so good,” she groans.
“I thought you felt sick? And yes, I needed to see what Wren is always going on about. And don’t deflect. What’s going on with Hunter?”
Bunny’s been tight-lipped about her and Hunter’s night in the bathroom. She won’t tell me what happened, no matter how hard I try to pry it out of her. I think it’s safe to assume they had sex, and now she’s terrified he’s going to hurt her.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Hunter’s response was just him being a typical guy. Now that he got what he wanted, he’s not interested anymore. But I do know better, and I know Hunter isn’t like that .
Maybe he really just doesn’t want to get sick.
“I think I’m going to throw up again. Call me when you’re back and tell me everythi—” The line goes dead just as the sound of yesterday’s regurgitated pizza cuts off her words.
I pop a French fry into my mouth and sip my strawberry milkshake as I head back to Robyn’s, mindful to park on the street a few houses down, but still within sight of the driveway.
I don’t have to wait long before her blue Camry pulls up, giving me just enough time to finish my food. Wren is crazy. The burger is nowhere near as good as Shake Shack.
Robyn carries in her groceries, and I let a few minutes pass, sipping on my shake while I pull her phone from my purse and switch it off silent mode. Once she’s closed her front door, I slip my dagger up the sleeve of my jean jacket and tuck my bag beneath the seat.
Hopefully, she hasn’t realized her phone is missing yet. Wren once told me she doesn’t use it often because she’d rather talk to people in person. I’m banking on that one snippet of information.
As I approach the house, the neighborhood feels eerily quiet. No hum of lawnmowers, no kids playing in the street. Strange for a weekend afternoon, but it works to my advantage .
My heart hammers as I step onto the driveway. There’s still time to turn back. I keep thinking that if I’m not meant to do this, Wren will call or text—some sign that the universe is intervening.
But my songbird is unusually quiet today. I know Hunter’s parents wanted help around the house, but even he managed to text Bunny back.
A gentle breeze sways the hanging flower pots, sending a thick floral scent wafting over me. I don’t have to knock because the second my foot hits the top step, the door swings open, and Robyn stands there, wide-eyed in confusion.
“Hi! I’m so sorry. I know this is probably weird!” I hold her phone out. Her eyes dip to it before narrowing with thinly veiled suspicion. “You dropped this at the store. I tried waving you down when you were leaving the parking lot, but you didn’t see me. I hope it wasn’t weird that I followed you home.”
I’m a walking red flag.
Anyone with an ounce of stranger danger would know that, no matter how old or trusting they are.
Robyn just blinks, and a second later, the monstrous visage twisting her features melts into fake gratitude. “Oh, goodness! Thank you! I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was missing.”
She takes the phone and widens the door as she steps aside. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” She releases a breathy laugh, patting her ponytail. “I know, it’s probably weird to invite a stranger in, but my son moved away, and I could use some help bringing some things up from the basement.” She tosses up her hands and snort-laughs, rolling her eyes. “Yeesh, Robyn. You couldn’t sound more like a murderer if you tried.”
No wonder people like her. She oozes the same friendly assurance Freddy did, even making a lurid joke sound harmless.
I let out a giggle, smiling at her. She’s making this too damn easy.
But it reminds me a little too much of myself—how I lull my victims into a false sense of security before I strike. This woman has over a foot on me and can probably toss me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She’s not weak like a man. I’m not a vice for her. From what I know, she sexually abused Wren but wasn’t otherwise physically violent. My guard is up because I know what she is, but I’m not getting any “ I’m going to lock you in the basement ” vibes.
“I’d love to help. I know I’d want someone to do the same for my parents if I moved away.” I step inside and take in my surroundings.
The living room is small, with a single loveseat and an old recliner that’s seen better days. Brightly colored crochet animals lay in a pile on a small table next to an unfinished project. Photos of her and Wren clutter the walls, a montage of their life together.
Robyn leads me down a long hall, past the kitchen. I notice there are two cups on the table. “So, where did your son move to?”
“New York. He’s only been gone a few months but can’t wait to come home. Says it’s just awful there,” she lies, her voice thick with syrupy sympathy. “Have you ever been? I don’t think I’ve seen you around. We don’t get many visitors in our little town.”
“Oh, I love New York. It’s such a shame he doesn’t like it. I’m just passing through on my way to San Diego,” I say as we reach a wooden door at the end of the hall.
As she opens it, a thud sounds from beyond the kitchen area. My breath catches. Per the floor plan, I know the bedrooms are where the sound came from, and a sense of dread creeps along my bones.
Wren was sure she never touched anyone else. But what if he was wrong? What if, now that she doesn’t have him in her grasp any longer, she set her sights on someone else?
“Oh, that’s the dog. When I saw you coming up the driveway, I put him away. He’s not real friendly to strangers.” She ushers me through the doorway and down the rickety stairs .
All my senses are on high alert as we descend into a dimly lit room that smells muggy and fresh all at the same time. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I spot a washer and dryer against the far wall, the source of the clean scent.
Another thud sounds from upstairs—closer this time. My grip tightens as I slide my dagger into my palm, eyes snapping to the open doorway.
It’s that moment in a thriller when the music builds, and you know the jump scare is coming—but that knowledge doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Something about this entire situation sends my serial killer Spidey senses into overdrive.
“Dove!” Wren’s sluggish cry from upstairs sends my heart plummeting to my stomach.
What are you doing here, Songbird?
Blue flashes in my peripheral.
I jerk back just in time, slashing my dagger across Robyn’s body as she lunges at me. The blade skims her stomach, slicing fabric and flesh. She shrieks, clutching the wound as blood pools between her fingers. It’s shallow, nowhere near fatal, but enough to drop the giantess onto her ass.
“What did you do to him?” I seethe, straddling her in an instant.
She thrashes beneath me, one arm pushing at my shoulder while the other presses to her bleeding stomach. “If I can’t have him, no one will!”
“Dove!” Wren cries again. A crash follows, and my head whips toward the stairs just in time to see him stumbling down like a newborn foal, unsteady and disoriented.
“Baby, what did she do to you?” I growl, slamming the pommel of my dagger into Robyn’s cheek before shoving off her and rushing to Wren’s side.
He greets me with open arms, sighing in relief the moment his eyes meet mine. “Thank God. I thought she hurt you,” he breathes against my hair.
“Get away from her, Wrenley!” Robyn snarls. “She’s poisoned your mind against me!”
The aggression rips from my throat before I can stop it. I tear from Wren’s grasp, blade poised to sink deep. “You disgusting, despicable?—”
Wren’s arm locks around my waist, yanking me back, but not before my weapon finds purchase, biting into the meat of her calf as she scrambles away.
“Dove, no.” His harsh command mingles with her pained scream.
“Go back upstairs, Songbird. You don’t have to watch me do this.” I twist in his arms, clutching his shirt as I stare up at him, vision blurred with unshed tears. “Let me avenge you.”
“You have no right to call him that!” Robyn sobs, her voice raw and shaking. “He’s mine! My little songbird!”
“Baby, please.” My forehead presses to his chest, my tears soaking his shirt. “She can’t live after what she’s done to you. I know I should’ve asked first, but I?—”
“Stop, Turtle Dove.” Wren’s fingers slip under my chin, tilting my face up. He kisses me softly. Once. Twice. The third time, his tongue sweeps against my lips, and I let him in, letting him ravage me.
Behind us, Robyn sniffs. “Wrenley, how could you?”
“I love you so fucking much for wanting to do this for me,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for me to see the hazy devotion in his eyes. He sways slightly on his feet.
His fingers smooth my hair back as his deep brown gaze shifts—first to me, then over my head to his mother. I glare at her over my shoulder as he continues, voice steadier than before. “But this is something I need to do.”
“Baby, I already told you—you’re not a killer.” I reach up, cupping his cheek.
Wren smiles. It’s full of so much love and reverence that my heart aches from the force of it.
“Now that I have my angel of death at my side,” he murmurs, “I’m feeling pretty invincible, Turtle Dove.”