Chapter 25
TALIN AND brENDEN
Tallie
Sweat dribbles down my back as I hurry up the sidewalk. It takes a lot of effort not to look around, but I don’t even know what I’d be trying to find. Some shady car? Men in trench coats smoking cigars? Eyes leering out from nearby curtains?
I have to trust Brenden. He’s been obsessively watching this house and he’s positive this is our window, only I wish I knew what I should be careful about. The less you know, the better you can play the role.
Easy for him to say, the freaking dickbrain.
I pause on the walkway leading toward the Davis house. My story echoes through my head for the fiftieth time. The problem isn’t that I know what I’m supposed to say—it’s more that I have no clue whether it’ll work or not.
Trust him. That’s what he keeps asking. Trust him and work with him, and maybe we can do this together.
Through this whole nightmare I keep thinking Brenden’s finally going to pull away entirely, suck himself into some black hole and never release himself again, but instead he’s opened up.
Not at first, and not smoothly, but I finally feel like we’re equals in a partnership.
Like we really are husband and wife.
The thought gives me enough courage to knock on the door.
I stand for what feels like an age until a young woman answers. She smiles at me but it’s the look of an employee doing their best to come off like they care about what’s happening. “Hello, can I help you?”
“Hi, my name’s Talin Sarkissian, I was hoping Mr. and Mrs. Davis are around? I know I’m dropping in unannounced, but it’s important.”
The young woman’s smile falters. “They’re home, but—“
“It’s about their grandson, Peter.”
That instantly gets her attention. She grimaces like I punched her in the face and turns away. “You’d better come in then.”
Relief floods me as I follow her into a sitting room beside the main entrance.
I’m left on a large couch surrounded by ancient doilies and an oil painting of Mr. Davis, thirty years younger, holding an elephant gun over his shoulder and dressed like he’s going on a safari.
Nightmarish, honestly, the way his creepy oil eyes stare at me.
My heart’s an ugly mess and sweat beads along my underarms but I do some breathing exercises Brenden taught me to try to settle myself down. They don’t work.
Mrs. Davis appears moments later, looking very much like a walking, wrinkled old poodle.
She’s in white, her poofy hair teased to an obscene height, her smile plastered in place by the finest surgeons in the region.
“Tallie Sarkissian! Darling! What a lucky day!” Mrs. Davis frets over, hugging me, and it feels like I’m touching a literal bag of bones.
“When Patricia told me it was you waiting down here, I almost didn’t believe her. ”
“I’m sorry to drop in like this, Mrs. Davis.”
“Please! Nonsense! And call me Darla.” I almost gag. Darla Davis. “Sit down, sit down, can I have Patricia fetch some tea? No, don’t turn it down, the cookies are lovely and I have a very special blend. Patricia! PATRICIA.”
The young woman reappears, looking serene again. “Yes, miss?”
“The good tea and those cookies I like, please, darling.” Mrs. Davis’s smile suggests Patricia better hurry her ass up or else there will be nasty consequences.
She turns back to me the moment Patricia is gone.
Her hands fold in her lap and she sits very straight.
“Now, darling, tell me how your mother’s doing? ”
I clear my throat and stumble through the usual small talk.
Araxie is fine, Mama is always wonderful, Papa takes such good care of her.
And my siblings? They’re all perfect, especially Annie, oh yes Annie’s doing well, wasn’t her singing incredible?
You should hear her at home, especially in the shower, the acoustics are divine, ha ha ha!
Yes, yes, Sam’s good, Davit’s well, no I haven’t heard much from Hovik, and yes Miriam’s out in Boston, married to a doctor, imagine that!
Luckily, we’re interrupted when Patricia arrives with a tea set, cups, and a bowl of crumbly pale-yellow Italian cookies with big globs of crystalline sugar on the top. Patricia pours carefully and retreats once our cups are full.
Mrs. Davis’s gaze never leaves mine. It’s disturbing. “Now, darling, why did you show up on my doorstep this evening, hmm? Patricia mentioned something about Peter? That young boy is always such trouble. I do hope he hasn’t done anything… untoward.”
I look down at my cup, cradling it in both hands. The sides are warm, almost too hot. Mrs. Davis takes a loud, nasty sip as my shoulders slump.
“I hate coming here like this. I really do, but I don’t know where else to go. My father… you know him… he’s very conservative… and my family…”
I swear, her smile stretches to lizard-like proportions. “It’s okay, darling. You’re safe.” She puts her hand on my knee.
I almost gag. Yeah fucking right.
“Peter…”
“Yes? Go on?”
“Well, him and me…”
“It’s okay. You can say it.”
I let out an ugly sob and spill my tea on the floor. “He got me pregnant!”
Brenden
I vault the back fence and land heavily on top of a bush.
It’s not pretty. In my head, I’d swoop over like a professional and gracefully drop to my toes, head already on a swivel searching for enemies, but instead I have to roll awkwardly from a bunch of prickly branches. I come up cursing my bad luck and only belatedly scan the yard.
Same place as the garden party from what feels like forever ago.
Now the folding tables and tents are gone, leaving behind a lot of open space between here and the house.
I hesitate, mentally going over the map I made of the surrounding area, before slipping along the edge of the yard toward the back windows.
Tallie’s inside. I saw her go in before coming around. The Sarkissian thugs will be watching again very shortly if they keep to their usual pattern. I have maybe five minutes to get in before I risk being spotted. Problem is, I don’t know where the old bastards are right now.
Can’t hesitate. This is part of what it means to be a thief. All my planning, all my quiet, meticulous, careful thought and mapping and calculating, it all disappears on the day and I find myself improvising half this shit anyway.
What’s the old saying? Everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the face? Consider my face fucking knocked out.
I reach the drain pipe I planned on scaling. It’s cast iron and bolted directly into the masonry, which is lucky for me, since it doesn’t make any noise when I get my fingers underneath. I drag myself up, going faster than is safe, but the back door opens and a woman steps out.
She’s ten feet below. My arms shake as I grip the drain pipe tightly.
The woman’s got sandy blond hair and sighs as she lights a cigarette.
“Fucking crazy bitch,” she mutters, taking several quick drags.
“I swear to Christ, I’m going to kill them one day…
and this new girl… can you believe it? Another stray cat…
I wonder which of the nightmare grandsons hit this one…
” She keeps smoking as I cling to the wall, praying for her to be finished.
I didn’t plan on getting stuck here where anyone might see me.
If she looks up… if she wants to gaze at the pretty sunset…
I’ll be fucked.
Instead there’s an ugly shriek from inside the house, like a bat getting stabbed with a fork.
The woman stubs out her cigarette and hurries back inside.
I instantly start climbing again, sweat slicking my hands.
My shoulders and wrists tremble, but I make it to the porch roof.
I hop off, scurry across, and reach a window.
It’s locked, but I brought a thin metal tool that easily fits under the sill.
I use some force to get the latch undone and find myself falling in face-first and landing on a plush carpet.
Guest room. Clean bed. Lots of floral accents. I leave the window open—I’ve learned too many times that a quick escape is usually necessary and I don’t want to be fumbling while trying to run. There’s another shriek from downstairs and I hurry to the door, cracking it open—
Right as that same woman walks past.
She’s not paying attention. I resist the urge to slam the door shut, but that would only draw her eye. Instead, I hear her soft but insistent voice, muttering something about following her and a problem in the parlor. Moments later, she’s walking past again, this time with Mr. Davis on her heels.
I grin to myself. God damn Tallie. I knew she was a dream, but this is even better than I could’ve envisioned. I don’t know exactly what she’s saying down there, but she’s clearly selling the story, and that’s all I need.
Once the hallways empty, I sneak into the house.
Tallie
“DICKY! GET DOWN HERE!” Mrs. Davis’s shrill shriek leaves my ears ringing as I sob into my hands. Sweat rolls down my back and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or how damn hot this house is. “There, there, it’ll be okay—DICKY! GET DOWN—“
“Is something wrong, misses?” Patricia’s voice, sounding surprisingly calm considering her employer is screaming like a dying cat and I’m crying like a baby.
“Get my husband right now, if you please.” Mrs. Davis rubs my back like she’s barely paying any attention. “Darling, darling, it’s okay, you’re okay. You can talk to me. Tell me… what did Peter do?”
“He… he…” Does she really expect me to explain how sex works, for fuck’s sake? “We were drinking… it was a horrible mistake!”
“There, there. Now, he didn’t… you know, darling, how men can be sometimes.”
I look up, too surprised to keep acting. “What are you talking about?”
Mrs. Davis wrings her hands together. “Did he hurt you, love? It’s just that, Peter, when that boy gets to drinking… sometimes he does things…” She trails off absently looking at the carpet.
My sweet Jesus in heaven. It hits me like a bomb. She’s probably been fixing her psycho grandson’s mistakes for years.