Chapter 49 #3
“And the other end?” I flip it over and study the sticker on the bottom with the color name printed on it. “Femme Fatale.”
“Seemed fitting.” Quinn’s bare lips twitch into a small smile. “Rotate the dial counterclockwise one, two, or three clicks. The injector’s loaded in the base and will spring once it’s dialed up and pressed against your target.”
“I love it.” I clutch the tube to my chest. “Can I keep it?”
“Only if you’re careful.” Quinn scowls and pries my fingers loose so the lipstick’s gently resting in my palm. “The tube itself won’t break if you drop it or shake it, but since it’s a prototype, I can’t vouch for how the seals will hold under stress.”
I look at the object in my hand in fascination, but Hugo’s the one who speaks.
“So there’s a chance it could get jostled, the seals could fail, hemlock could leach into the lipstick, and someone using the safe end could accidentally take themselves out in the name of beauty?”
“Pretty much,” Quinn says. “You have to be delicate.”
I bounce in my chair. “I only got to use the original injector once. A single click.” I point at Pell. “On him.”
Pell lifts his head, spoon hanging from his lips, already halfway through his bowl, and Quinn’s face splits into the first real smile I’ve seen from her.
“You just made my entire year.” Then she’s back to her deadpan self. “You should’ve used all three.”
“Aw, Quinnie, you said that third click might be fatal,” he says.
“And?” She raises her brows at him before turning to the rest of us. “Apologies, by the way. Potato paprikash should really be served with pickles.”
Three hours later, we have full bellies, licked-clean bowls, a pile of flicked pistachios in front of Hugo, and a plan. It’s risky, and it relies on far more luck than any of us is comfortable with, but it’s a goddamn plan.
“I still say it’s better if I go in alone,” Hugo says.
My mouth flattens. “The plan takes both of us.” Then I narrow my eyes at him. “And you need to promise to keep your cool. The last time somebody held a gun to my head, you almost got us both killed.”
“What’s that, now?” Quinn asks mildly as she finishes loading the dishwasher.
“Tell you later,” Fi says. “Love your boots, by the way.”
Quinn offers a flicker of a smile as she looks down at her red plaid Docs. “Thank you.”
“I can keep it together, but you’re still hurt.
” Hugo’s eyes fall to the sickly green bruises on my neck.
They’re less obviously individual fingers, but everybody at this table knows how I got them.
Ditto the yellow-brown smear on my cheekbone and half-moon under my eye, both of which are taking their sweet damn time healing up.
At least here I don’t have to bother with a turtleneck and a ton of concealer like I did when I went back to work on Wednesday after calling off sick—and heavily implying to Bart that I needed some personal time after my neighbor finally made his move. Which, to be fair, was also true.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
He turns toward me with a frown. “You’re not—”
A flying pistachio pings him in the eye, and he gives a yip of pain.
“Pell!” I whip my head to the end of the table. “Not cool!”
I pull Hugo’s hand away to inspect the damage. “Poor baby,” I murmur.
Fi stands to fetch a bag of peas from the freezer. “Food fights are all fun and games until somebody loses an eye,” she primly tells Pell.
She hands the bag to Hugo and hovers until he obediently presses it to the right side of his face. Even Cosmo gets in on the babying, hopping onto Hugo’s lap to cover his chin in sloppy doggy kisses.
From his lonely end of the table, Pell scrubs his knuckles over his jaw and says to no one in particular, “In my defense, he caught the first eighteen.”
Quinn sniffs. “This is why you don’t let a wild animal into your house.” Then she leans across the table to squint at Hugo, eventually declaring, “You’ll live.”
Felicity and I keep cooing over my boyfriend, who soaks in the excess of sympathy like a man who’s never had it before.
Once the fussing dies down, a hush falls over the warm kitchen.
Fi nibbles on a thumbnail, Pell drums his fingers on the table, and Quinn crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him.
I’m content to simply lean against Hugo’s chest and press my nose into his good-smelling neck while Cosmo’s paws quiver as he chases rabbits in his dreams from the safety of his dad’s lap.
“You know,” Pell says over the sound of the wind rattling the windows outside, “it’d be a lot safer if we just martyr the bastard.”
For a heartbeat, I’m tempted to agree. Maybe this time we can take the shortcut, kill the bad cop, hope his followers don’t take revenge on his ex-wife, and assume the legal system will get justice for her dead boyfriend.
When Hugo’s clear blue eyes meet mine, I’m positive he’s tempted too.
Then he smiles sadly and props his chin on my head.
“Baby, we have to,” he whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back.
From his end of the table, Pell sighs. “Then you’d best not miss.”