Chapter 4 #3
The smile turned into a sneer the moment they were too far away to see, my lips curling with disgust.
“Think she’ll do it, Cerb?”
He answered with a loud bark, sharp and certain. A sound that said yes, she will, and she fucking should.
I smiled. “I hope you’re right.”
Suzanne had that look in her eyes. The look of a woman who’d finally reached her breaking point. Who’d finally realized that the only way out was through a grave.
His, not hers.
I hoped she had the courage to follow through. I hoped she’d pour that vial into his whiskey and watch him convulse and die and finally, finally be free. That she’d watch the light leave his eyes and know she’d done it. That she’d saved herself when no one else would.
But hope was a dangerous thing. And I’d learned long ago not to rely on other people to do what needed to be done.
If Suzanne didn’t kill Harlen Troy, I would.
Eventually.
One way or another, that motherfucker was going in the ground.
“Let’s finish dinner before her highness wakes up,” I told Cerberus, tapping the outside of my thigh to signal him to follow.
His nails clicked against the hardwood floor, a rhythmic sound that echoed through the quiet house.
I moved around the kitchen humming, and Cerberus tracked me for a few minutes before he finally settled in and laid his head down on his paws.
His eyes were closed, but his tail thumped softly against the floor, letting me know he was aware of his surroundings. Always listening, always ready.
Always protecting.
Just like me.
“VIOLET!”
My mother’s voice cut through the silence of the past few hours, and Cerberus sighed, then blew a snort through his nose. A sound of pure canine disgust that made me smile despite myself.
I glanced over my shoulder at him. “I know, boy. But she’s my mother.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth. A justification I repeated every time the voice in my head whispered how easy it would be to add a little extra jimsonweed to her tea.
To let her slip away in her sleep, peaceful and unaware, her heart slowing and stopping while she dreamed of whatever the fuck she dreamed about.
But she was my mother.
She’d given me life, even if she’d resented every moment of it. Even if she’d made damn sure I knew I was unwanted, unloved, a burden she’d never asked for.
And I wasn’t ready to cross that line.
Not yet.
I ran my forearm across my forehead, wiping away the sweat and hair that clung to my face, damp and sticky in the suffocating heat. After quickly washing my hands and scrubbing away the dirt and plant matter, I grabbed a towel and headed toward my mother’s room.
I stood in the doorway, and before I could even ask what she needed, she barked, “Is dinner ready?”
“No, Mother. It’s only four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until five-thirty. Like always.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then you’re welcome to come to the kitchen and get a snack.”
“Bring me something to eat.”
I leaned against the doorframe, my arms hanging loosely in front of me, the towel twisting in my hands. “No. We have a schedule. Anything you want outside that schedule, you can get up and get yourself.”
“Violet,” she warned, her voice taking on that edge. The one that used to make me flinch when I was a child. The one that promised punishment if I didn’t obey.
“What, Mother? What are you going to do?”
We stared at each other, both unwilling to budge.
The difference was, it would have thrilled me if she’d gotten up from that chair to come after me.
It would have meant she still had some fight left in her.
Some spark of the woman she must have been before life beat it out of her.
Before whatever happened to make her this bitter, broken thing sitting in a recliner, waiting to die.
But she didn’t move. She just sat there, glaring at me with impotent rage. All bark and no bite. All threat and no follow-through.
“You are not an invalid, Mother. There’s nothing wrong with your body.”
“I was at your beck and call for eighteen years. You owe me!”
I took a step forward, my hands fisting at my sides, nails digging into my palms. “I don’t owe you shit!
” I snapped, my voice cold and controlled despite the anger burning in my chest. “I didn’t ask to be born.
That was a choice you made.” I pointed at her, my finger steady and unwavering.
“And you stopped taking care of me when I was ten years old. I’m twenty-five.
I’ve been taking care of you for a hell of a lot longer than you ever took care of me. ”
I straightened my back and took a deep breath, forcing the anger back down where it belonged. Locked away. Ready to be weaponized when needed.
“Now, I’m going back to making dinner. If you’re hungry, come into the kitchen and get something to eat.”
I pivoted and left her room without another word, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Not a slam, not a bang, just a quiet dismissal.
The voice in my head whispered again: She’s your mother.
But the voice was getting quieter every day.