Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRISTAN
Daphne’s been dodging me. I’ve driven past her house every day and seen her filming in her studio, or watching Bridgerton on her couch with our fur baby cuddled up at her feet.
Something shifted since her mother visited, and damn the heavy doors in the fancy house for being nearly soundproof. Scattered words and Brent’s name were all I could make out. None of it made sense, but judging from Brent being part of the conversation, it was bad.
So bad, Daphne won’t even pick up the phone.
I think Furt’s my next victim. I owe it to Daphne to eventually get around to killing Brent, but the thought of being her hitman still doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe she’ll change her mind?
It’s been a few weeks since McArthur’s death, and the bill was passed in the House of Representatives last Tuesday. Next stop is the Senate floor. Furt’s going to be working non-stop to whip the votes for this bill—all the more reason for him to be next on my list.
It’s time to send the Senate a message. Honestly, it’s a toss-up between Furt, or the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions.
But Daphne’s comment about Furt and his pedo preferences tips the scales in his favor.
My pen slips across a sheet of paper as I sketch out my plans for his demise, when Merlin’s rumbling bark breaks my concentration.
My eyes snap over to one of the shelter’s oldest members.
Merlin’s a senior mutt with a few breeds mixed into him.
Some pitbull. A dash of bulldog. I think a bit of husky, judging by his bark and his tendency to howl for no goddamn reason. He likes hearing himself talk.
His orange collar flashes against his black and grey fur, a reminder that he’s found a forever home. His new owners finished the paperwork this morning, and after a 24-hour cool-down period, they’ll be picking him up first thing tomorrow.
Furever Loved was my brainchild in all but the name. Tuck ran a contest at the children’s hospital where the kids could invent names for the shelter and vote. A seven-year-old named Willow came up with Furever Loved, and it beat Pawsome Pets by a handful of votes. The name’s as cute as she is.
I’m not a sensitive guy, but the day Willow walked in with her parents and said they were adopting a dog to celebrate her remission, I cried my eyes out.
They still send me a Christmas card of Willow and their Jack Russell terrier, Bowser, every year.
Now Willow’s starting high school, and Bowser’s going grey, but he still looks like the happiest damn dog every Christmas.
I fund the shelter on my own—no fees for adopting an animal.
No donations accepted. If someone does donate, we send the donations to another local shelter.
Occasionally, Tessa steals a few hundred grand from celebrities who participate in dog fights and donates it to the shelter.
She’s the Robin Hood of the Sinclair family.
I hire staff to do home and security checks before any of our dogs get adopted for exactly that reason—dog fights. Sick fucks out there try to adopt puppies from shelters where they can breed the females to pump out litters for fighting, or males as fighting dogs, or worse.
We’ve called the cops on sleazebags trying to adopt from Furever Loved, and we’ve earned a reputation of not only rejecting adoption applications from those assholes but also actively getting the cops involved.
And for a pretty penny, cops are more than happy to haul scum out of their homes and arrest them for facilitating a dog-fighting venture.
Furever Loved is the biggest donor to the cops’ local softball league—exactly for that reason. In this world, morality doesn’t make a difference. No, money gets you what you want.
“Hello!” Tessa’s sing-song voice echoes from the front door, inciting barks from some of the dogs in the back room.
“Hey.” I return her smile and don’t bother hiding my sketches as she wanders across the welcoming lobby over to the front desk.
“Hard work or hardly working?” she asks as she rests an elbow on the counter and sets her chin in her hand, waiting for an answer.
“Is this work?” I ask, showing her a half-finished sketch of my plans.
“Is that… the Operation game?” Tessa’s eyebrow raises in surprise.
I nod. “Yeah. Like when we were kids.”
“You’re sketching your childhood board games?” Her tone’s skeptical, and I can’t blame her.
But then her eyes land on Merlin, and my sketch is long forgotten as she darts over and fawns over the massive mutt. “Who’s my favorite boy?” Tessa coos as she rubs the top of his head.
Merlin’s pink tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, and he pants. He’s gazing up at Tessa like he’s in total puppy love.
“He found a home this morning,” I tell her.
Tessa squeals with excitement. “Finally! You hear that, boy? You’re going home.”
“You know, there are a few dogs here that could use a home,” I remind her.
“Tris, I can barely take care of myself. No way can I handle another living thing.”
I mean, Tessa’s killed a couple of goldfish before. And house plants. Hell, she managed to dehydrate a cactus.
Maybe she has a point. But she also has a big heart, and sometimes that’s all a dog needs. Well, that and food.
“You’re here all the time,” I point out. “Maybe it’s not a permanent adoption, but you could take one of them to your place. Drive them back and forth? I’m sure Manuel or Stas could look after him here during the day when you’re busy.”
Tessa murmurs a noncommittal “I’ll think about it,” before standing back up and plucking a clipboard from my desk. “Whose getting picked up today?”
“Porsche’s going home with the Brickerson family. They should be here around lunch.”
Tessa shakes her head with a smile. “God, I hope they rename him.”
“Why?”
“You named her after a car.” Tessa shoots me a look that says I’m a complete idiot sometimes.
“Hey, Dad loved those cars.” Cars were a mutual love of ours.
While Tuck had his head buried in books and Tessa went through hobbies like she went through clothes, Dad would show me around his mechanic shop.
We’d lift hoods and put cars up on racks.
He’d shown me how to rebuild a transmission, install a carburetor in a classic hot rod, and change brake pads.
I know every part of a car inside and out.
I worked as an unlicensed mechanic after dropping out of high school.
In truth, I was a glorified shop hand. It kept food on the table and covered the cost of Tuck’s college textbooks, along with room and board, since my brainiac brother got a full scholarship for tuition.
I covered Tessa’s college too until she dropped out.
The first thing she did when she learned to successfully hack and cover her tracks was to pay me back for the tuition I’d paid during her first year.
I didn’t want to take it, but the guilt on her face ate at my heart, and I couldn’t say no to my little sister after what she’d been through that year.
Like she can read my thoughts, Tessa drops the clipboard on the counter and gives me a tight hug.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You don’t ever have to thank me.” I press a kiss on top of my little sister’s head, the same way Mom taught me and Tuck to do when they brought her home from the hospital.
We still have that moment on a home video VHS, hidden away in a cardboard box in my attic with the rest of our parents’ belongings.
“Dad would be so proud of you,” she says.
I don’t know about me. I wish he would be, but with the blood on my hands, I doubt he’d approve. Though he did always teach me to stand up for the little guy. It’s always a coin toss whenever I wonder what Dad would think about my hobbies.
“He’d be most proud of you,” is all I can squeeze out from my tight throat.
Tessa scoffs as she releases me. “I fudge paperwork about being a consultant and steal money from rich assholes. You’re the one making a difference here.” She thumbs over her shoulder to Merlin, who’s watching us with complete adoration in his eyes.
“You’ve donated millions to charity, Tessa.”
“You literally save puppies.”
“You literally save people.”
“So does Tuck. Hell, he saves babies.”
“Okay. Tuck’s the family saint. Should we make him a plaque?”
Tessa beams at me. “Let’s do it.” She flips over my sketch and starts scribbling across the blank back of the page.
“I was joking,” I say.
“I wasn’t.”
Grabbing the paper, I yank it out from under the pen tip as black ink dances over the white counter. “Hey, I wasn’t done!”
“Use new paper.” I grab her a sheet from the printer behind us. “I need my drawing.”
“Do I even want to know?” She looks at my paper like it’s a grenade.
“It’s better not to. Don’t want you to incriminate yourself.”
Furt’s going to die. I’ll be cautious, but if anything goes south, I want Tessa and Tuck as far away from this as possible.
Tessa drops the pen on top of the blank paper and strides past me. “I’m going to go play with the puppies.”
At the word ‘play,’ Merlin launches himself out of his dog bed and waddles behind her, his tail flicking like a windshield wiper.
Damnit, why does he have to be so freaking cute?
As Tessa and Merlin disappear and the barking increases through the holding area, I open my laptop.
Even having Merlin in the room felt dangerous. My browser’s still open to the one dark webpage that mentions Daphne and her surprise gift.
Ghost_M110
Wonder if Fox’s daughter liked my present. Did she go crying to Daddy??
I don’t like the sound of that. His IP address says he’s somewhere in Sweden, so he’s using a damn VPN. He’s only posted a handful of other times.
Most were about me.
Ghost_M110
Supreme Cunt Justice had it coming… bitch went BOOM!
That was a few days after I blew up Justice Toner.
Ghost_M110
Heard it was AGF who killed McArthur. Gunpowder found at the scene. Police won’t release it to the public. Fucking pussies
Dude, Governor Stanton was impaled on a pole and decorated in lights and gunpowder like a fucking Christmas tree. Heard AGF was behind it. He’s my fucking hero LMFAO
Ghost managed to sprinkle in a few opinions, too:
Ghost_M110
Heard AGF’s going after the Bradshaw Bill. Trying to stop it. Let’s give the fucker a hand.
Bet a hundred bucks AGF blows up Fox before the election
I ain’t gay, but I’d suck AGF’s dick if he lets me light the gunpowder at his next crime scene
No thank you, strange, creepy internet person. I don’t want your mouth anywhere near my junk.
I never post on forums, though the little green light shows when I’m online. I doubt I’d get caught. No, fanboys like Ghost are yet another reason I stay anonymous and don’t post. I don’t want to encourage a moronic copycat or risk posting something personal.
But, for the first time on the dark web, this feels personal.
A little green dot pops up beside Ghost’s name.
So, he’s online. I wait, wondering if he’s just checking comments or doing some digging.
Ghost_M110
I’ve got another present for the First Daughter. Keeping it warm in my pants. Eight inches and hard
The innuendo’s obvious, but for all I know, this fucker could be referring to a gun. Without thinking, my fingers fly across the keyboard.
AGF
Touch her and die
Shit.
In seconds, comments flood the screen, asking if it’s really me, why should I care about what happens to Daphne, compliments from simps on how brilliant I am, and an onslaught of insults hurled at both of us. It’s like someone dropped a dead fish in the middle of a school of hungry piranhas.
Shit, what the hell did I do? I delete the message, but the replies linger, piling on one after another after another…
This is why I never post online.