The shop’s owner, a quiet man with kind eyes who asked no questions, brought me a paper cup of chamomile tea and a bag of frozen peas for my cheek.
I thanked him, pressed the cold to my face, and kept working.
I knew the Ashcroft family script by heart.
Marlene would weep and play the victim.
Tiffany would curse my name.
Shane would decide I’d embarrassed them.
Not one of them would think to ask whether my brain was bleeding.
To get out clean, I had to be five moves ahead of the chaos they’d manufacture — and for once, I was.
The strange gift of the last five years was that I knew that family the way a locksmith knows a lock.
I knew Marlene would go to the hospital to perform, which meant the apartment would be empty at exactly the hour I needed it.