Chapter 18 Talbot
TALBOT
Fucking finally. She’s asleep and just in time too.
The chunky corgi is on its back between us, snoring softly.
Misty’s dark hair fans out over the pillow.
I readjust my balls. They’re pinched in the snowman shorts Misty insisted I wear.
No way am I wearing the clothes from Ryan West. I’m going to bribe Elsa to find the exact same manufacturer online and give those to him and keep the real ones, like Misty and her creepy Austen box.
Except in my instance, this is perfectly normal behavior. Hockey is the religion of New England men, got it?
And fate is the patron saint of hitmen.
Austen’s going to meet his maker tonight.
Sliding my legs slowly out from under the covers, I wait and make sure Misty’s asleep.
Austen’s phone, which I snuck a glimpse at during the chaos of the cookie session, had a text message chain confirming a two a.m. meeting. No address, no name, just an unlisted number.
Perfect cause of death—sketchy late-night meeting.
But I figure if I stake it out, I can catch Austen. Then tell him good night.
Did I miss him?
Avoiding the creaky parts of the ancient wood floor, I glide to the window and narrow my eyes in the moonlight reflecting off the freshly fallen snow.
While Misty was in the shower, I’d snuck back into the room. I needed to make sure the window could open. I worked the old paint with my knife and oiled the hinges quickly while that corgi looked on in fascination and tried to eat the paint chips.
Now it opens silently.
My shoulders tense as the metal frame dings musically against a huge icicle that’s formed in the night.
I wiggle the window, hoping to dislodge the icicle with a minimal amount of noise.
I need the window to open all the way. I have to get out this way.
I can’t risk sneaking through the house.
I steel myself for the icy cold. I’ve got another change of clothes in my truck.
I’m not risking waking Misty more than necessary.
She turns in bed, making soft noises as her arm trails through the warmth where I’d lain.
Craning my head out, I peer down the drive, wishing I had my scope.
I don’t see footprints or tire marks in the snow, but I don’t have a good visual on the driveway.
Shit, someone’s coming.
The slow crunch of snow echoes low over the wind.
I press my back to the wall of Misty’s bedroom, minding the low-sloped ceiling, watching through the round window as Austen and a man I don’t recognize stop under the tree outside of Misty’s bedroom.
He’s meeting this guy here? What the hell?
I try to concentrate on what they’re saying.
“Talbot, what are you doing? Is that Austen?”
“Shh!”
“Don’t hush me! I know what you’re trying to do.” She reaches out and slams the window shut. The force of it dislodges the icicle. It barrels down, sharp point heading for its target.
Misty gasps.
“Well, hell, I guess I believe in Christmas miracles after all.”
Austen’s hockey reflexes kick in, and he jumps back as the icicle shatters right where he stood.
“Dammit. You almost had him.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him!” Misty cries.
Austen looks up at the dark window. I grab Misty, pulling her away before he sees us.
“Who’s that man with Austen?”
“High five for effort, Gumdrop.”
She slaps my hand. “Do you know him? He looks sketchy. Seems like someone you would know.”
Austen and the man finish their furtive conversation and are walking back towards the driveway around the corner of the house.
I herd her back to the warm bed and add more wood on the fire.
“Should we be worried about Austen?” She chews on her lip.
I crawl next to her, grab her chin, and wink.
“Don’t worry about Austen at all. I’ll take care of him.”
If whatever shit he’s mixed up in doesn’t take him out first.
“You don’t have to come,” she says without looking at me, arms full of overpacked Tupperware.
“Is that your daily affirmation for surviving Austen? Do you look in the mirror and tell yourself that? Cocoa Puff, does your mommy have low self-esteem? You really need to raise your standards, Gumdrop. Have you ever tried writing to men in prison and striking up a relationship there?”
“Why, so I can have another you in my life?” she snaps.
“I’m too good at my job to get sent to prison, and I’m offended that you would even suggest that.
” I shrug on my jacket and follow Misty out into the snow, carrying the huge cooler of food to my truck bed, which is packed with boxes of neatly packed cookies.
“Don’t lie. You like being able to parade me around.
I make you interesting, more interesting than Brielle.
That’s what this is all about. You secretly want to win against your stepsister.
You want to be liked, want to come out ahead.
You want someone to choose Misty—just once—over the shiny, curated perfection of Brielle.
You’re competitive but won’t admit it because you think it makes you a bad sister and daughter. ”
She glares at me, wounded. “You…” Shaking her head, she slams the truck door.
Cocoa immediately clambers from her lap to mine.
“I what?” I blink at her and crank the engine.
“There’s nothing deeper about me than what you see.
Trauma and neglect in my childhood, classic unloved middle child turned psychopath, trail of bodies in my wake.
The question is, are you going to be the girl who turns my life around, teaches me the true meaning of Christmas, and convinces me to finally hang up the gun? ”
“Gun? You were trying to kill Austen with an icicle last night. Hardly psychological-thriller worthy.” She crosses her arms.
I reach into the paper sack of my peanut butter cookies and set one between my teeth so I can turn on the radio to heavy metal.
“No, Gumdrop, you were the one trying to kill Austen last night. I’m proud of you. This is a big first step into reclaiming your shredded self-respect.”
She fiddles with the radio, and Christmas music blares out in Hudson’s truck.
I need to remember to change the station back. He hates Christmas music.
I roll down the window so Cocoa can stick her head out and snap at the snowflakes. The corgi in her crocheted capelet and matching hat is a warm weight on my lap.
I miss having a dog. The ache is sudden.
But dogs need a house and a yard, and you can’t just take off at a whim and leave them.
The corgi turns around on my lap as I back into a parking space.
“Cocoa doesn’t like the practice arena,” Misty whispers to my raised eyebrows. “I adopted her here from a pet rescue event the Harbor Hawks host. She was a serial returnee. It was her third adoption event, and I think she’s afraid she’s going to be given back again.”
Though Misty’s fussy over the dog, she’s more anxious than the corgi when she and I carry the boxes of cookies into the oversized foyer decorated with photos of the Harbor Hawks roster.
She chews on her lip as we head inside.
The oversized Christmas tree that I cut down a few days ago glitters and gleams as I follow Misty into the Harbor Hawks practice arena.
The WAGs are waiting for her, dressed in their designer clothes like fashion-icon Eskimos in fur boots, white leggings, and cropped fur coats that won’t keep a person warm at all. They’re all taking group shots in their matching outfits with their blindingly white oversized veneers.
Misty’s anxious as she organizes the boxes of cookies and the lists for the WAGs, who roll their eyes.
“These are for the front office, and don’t forget to pass out some to the players’ parents.
They’re in town for the games. Where’s the marketing manager?
She’s supposed to get video footage of you handing these out.
Don’t forget to explain to people that these are handmade.
” Misty squeezes one of the mini crocheted Christmas trees.
“They can be used as Christmas ornaments. I have the patterns if anyone wants.”
I suddenly hate how she tries so hard to make these people like her.
Brielle laces her arm through mine. “I’m going to steal you before Misty can force you into manual labor at her grandmother’s gross café.”
“Ugh, yeah, that pasta dish is so heavy. I don’t know how anyone can eat it,” another of the WAGs scoffs.
From behind the glass double doors, shouts echo along with the familiar sound of hockey pucks hitting the boards.
Brielle giggles as I hold the doors open for her. The familiar smell of ice and stale sweat hits me as we enter the arena.
The stands are semifilled with fans of the Boston Harbor Hawks, there to watch the skating practice.
The hockey players zip around the ice, cutting in front of each other and stealing the puck. Ryan, even though he’s retired and the coach, is still able to keep up with the players.
“He could probably still play,” Brielle tells me, still hanging onto my arm as we walk up to the glass.
“If he hadn’t met Misty’s mother and gotten seduced, he wouldn’t have retired at forty.
She ruined his career. It’s a good thing Austen came to his senses before marrying Misty.
She’d take him down, too, just like her mother did to my father. ”
“What is Austen up to these days besides hockey?”
Above me, the WAGs are passing out cookies to the players’ parents and posing for the marketing director to take videos. High up in the stands, Misty and Sienna are passing out bags of treats to fans.
Brielle scowls at him. “He keeps hinting about moving the wedding up. As if I want a rushed wedding. I’m trying to get a reality TV deal.”
“Interesting.”
“He has all these business deals. Won’t tell me about them, just keeps wanting Misty to look at it. ‘Misty needs to look at these,’ ‘Misty needs to tell him what to do.’ She’s ruined him. He didn’t used to be so… so…”
“Weak,” I offer.
“Exactly.” Brielle breathes. “He’s weak. Not like you.”
Austen’s giving me an ugly look from the ice.
It would be too obvious to run my fingers through her blond hair. I want to incite Austen into doing something dumb that gets him killed, not get myself killed because Ryan West thinks I’m disrespecting him.
Mason runs into Austen and tumbles onto the ice, tripping over his stick.
His father barks at him, then his gaze turns in our direction.
“Hi, Daddy!” Brielle waves.
Above me, Misty’s carefully picking her way down the stadium steps with her empty boxes.
“Great,” I hear Misty tell Sienna, “now there are two guys I like that are fighting over Brielle.”
She likes me?
That’s good, right? I’m making progress, right?
It’s fine as long as I don’t like her back.