Chapter 15 #2
But to kill Quinntessa Dawson and dismember her body to give as a gift to my father? I’d never felt so much like a villain. I had to do it for Estelle. I wished I didn’t, but I had to. I had to do it.
There was no choice. There was no choice.
I didn’t like the pain in my chest. I didn’t like the way I had to think about if I wanted to watch the life drain from her eyes or stick to seeing her go limp from behind. I felt dizzy as the ink in front of me settled in different boxes.
As I stared down at the crisp, freshly printed paper in front of me, I was reminded of the article that told the town I had dropped from cheer captain.
One of those Vincent boys ran it. Or maybe it had been Diana or something.
D’arcy mostly worked summers at the Chronicles, but when she was there, she had a heart.
She never would have allowed such a thing to pass her eyes.
Still, it had. The entire town knew I was pregnant before I could accept it myself. Christian’s family knew I was pregnant before I could explain it wasn’t their son’s child.
The dark ink on my fingers. The gun held to my temple. The sound of old music bouncing around my car as I stared down at the judgment made by others. I thought that would be the end of this push and pull before Dominik found me.
My uncle thought he heard an engine in the woods late and sent Lukas to check things out.
He was quick to take my gun and even quicker to give me a place to stay until my father found out.
I’d never felt guiltier than watching my father stand over Dominik with bruised knuckles, all for offering me kindness.
I wished Dominik had been my father. He treated my mom and I like gold when he was alive. Same with Estelle and my older sister when she was still here.
Anastasia had the right idea, running.
At least I hadn’t felt on the brick of death until now, watching Victor break into Quinntessa’s car knowing her days were numbered.
“You want me to kill her?” I brushed my fingers over the advertisement that was obviously about Quinntessa’s Mustang, a small square among many other secret coded messages.
Fuck.
Vic,
Your eyes shine bright. Baby, they’re so Blue.
Seeing you sway to the rhythm of the Blues.
I cannot Express the O so feeling I have when you are near.
Your spirit must catch Inside the saxophone.
I hope you have room to Store it when we venture home.
Away from here. Nearer than most.
You are so very close.
Eleanor Scraps.
I couldn’t believe I missed this. Levi must have been onto me when I showed up at the barn.
Jamison was only a decoy, a distraction while they pushed this into the press.
Most of the messages were like these—little poems, advertisements searching for work, award announcements for made-up people.
Quinntessa was unlucky enough to be the topic of discussion.
Well, her car was the topic of discussion.
This poem was written for Victor. It gave him all the details he needed to know about the blue Mustang that hung out in the square.
Baby blue. Jazz. Coffee shop. Coven. And the thing I couldn’t ignore: Eleanor—the Mustang.
Anyone would a brain and decent knowledge of old gangster movies would recognize the name tag referred to a vehicle interested in being scrapped.
I’d stolen cars in the past, mostly ones they could sell for parts and crush later.
Most of the time, someone was tossed in the trunk before it was crushed into a tight square and melted down into new steel to sell to others.
My grandfather had always been an innovative man.
He knew the perfect way to get rid of people and make money all at once.
“Are we delivering her car?” I asked.
“I got better cars to turn over than that piece of crap, but if you want it as your price, do take it.” Papa leaned closer to me and smirked.
“What I want is the necklace and some part of her that her father would recognize. Are you going to do your job, or am I going to contact some old friends who might be better parents to my granddaughter?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I slammed my drink down on the table and glanced around the patio when a few eyes flashed to us.
I ignored them and glared into Papa’s dark hazel eyes.
“I can steal her car. If you give me some time, I can get information on her father for you,” I lowered my voice, hating the way it sounded like pleading now.
“You can kill him! I can kill them both!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I will be killing him when I’m ready. It’s all about the fun of the chase, which you would get if you stopped getting ahead of yourself and focused.”
“But she?—”
“Let’s face it, Eleanor.” His sharp eyes met mine with a stern gaze.
My father had this way of becoming deeply threatening and highly uninterested in my existence effortlessly.
“You’re not a good mother to that child.
You do things without thinking. You never put her first. You pawn her off to your friends instead of taking responsibility for the abomination you brought into my house.
You are not fit to be a mother to a three-year-old. ”
He was right.
I hated how right he was. I never was fit to be a mother, but I refused to let her go into the adoption system.
For the first year of her life, I couldn’t even remember what color eyes she had.
I wanted nothing to do with her. I was sick.
It was selfish of me to drag Estelle around and drop her off everywhere I wasn’t.
It was disgusting of me to continue to act like this even after months of talking to that annoying therapist.
However, being far from me was usually safer for her. I trusted Erica with my entire heart. She wouldn’t let anything happen to my daughter.
“And that’s my mistake.” He cleared his throat and pressed his lips together in a fine line.
“What is?” I asked.
“You.” Papa raised his brows as I paled. “You are my biggest mistake, Eleanor. I hope you always remember that. If I could have convinced your mother to abort you, I would have. Anastasia ran away, and she still has more promise than you’ve ever showed me.”
I skimmed the people around us to escape his scrutinizing gaze, ignoring his rolling eyes. He hated when I refused to fight with him. If we weren’t in public, he would have socked me in the mouth again.
“Allow me to be a good father and point you in the right direction.” He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to me. “Strangle her. You’re strong, and it takes less time than you think. By the time you worry about it, she’ll be dead.”
I sunk back into my chair and swallowed uncomfortably under my father’s amused gaze. He wasn’t going to let me get away from this. Everything I’d worked so hard to change for Estelle was closing in on me.
“Papa . . .” I hoped, for once in his life, he’d treat me like his child and not one of his boys.
“What if . . . What if I got her in on some debt? Got her caught up in something that put her in jail? You’re right.
I’m a shit mom, but I’m trying to put Stell first. If I get caught killing her, then it won’t matter. ”
“Enough.” My father’s scowl deepened, his smile washing away. “I would only do what’s best for the child. I’m giving you a chance here to prove you can be a better mother! Like sweet Evelyn is to you. Your mom would kill for you. She killed plenty for me.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” I hissed.
Papa didn’t bat a lash at my gritted teeth. His sly smirk was too telling for what hideous things he must have been thinking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two familiar faces walk past the patio area.
One made eye contact with my father before continuing across the road toward the coffee shop.
Different tattoo designs covered their arms and necks.
It wasn’t an odd sight here in Indiana, but to me, it screamed chaos.
The messages inked on their bodies, up to their necks, were warnings for the innocent people here in Coven.
Chicago. They were from fucking Chicago.
“You will get me more information on her father,” he declared, but my eyes didn’t stray far from the two large men entering the coffee shop. “When I give you the signal”—he jabbed his finger into the newspaper—“you’ll bring her to the farm and take care of things.”
“Papa, please,” I whispered.
“We had a deal. Choose what you lose,” Papa spat, his eyes flaring. “Some random whore, or your child.”
Estelle. I’d always choose Estelle.
“I don’t care if you take her into the woods and shoot her. I don’t care if you take her down to the creek and drown her?—”
“Are you fucking crazy?” I used the menu to hide my face, looking around to see the nearest table glancing at my movements. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to overhear what my father had said.
My heart almost gave out when he raised his chin, the coffee cup raised to his lips as he read through the menu, ignoring my worries.
“You give me what I want, Estelle is yours. Until then, get close to the girl.” My father flipped through the menu and nodded to himself. “I think I’m going to try their calzones. What will you have, Eleanor?”
“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.
I had to close my eyes to hide the pain funneling through my chest. This would either ruin my life or give me nightmares until I died.
I didn’t think I could kill Quinntessa. All I saw when I looked at her was a scared version of me, fighting for her own place in this fucked-up town.
Killing her would . . . I’d have to make it quick.
I’d have to shoot her and close my eyes, listen for the moment she hit the ground. I could never . . . I couldn’t . . .
I couldn’t kill her if I fell deep into her eyes again. It had to be quick, for both of our sakes. If I hesitated, she’d suffer a slow death. She didn’t deserve to be tortured.