Page 73 of Broken Mercy
Is this what it’ll be like? Can I really be this man’s wife if I barely ever see the real him?
I’m only partially aware of what’s in front of me and don’t notice the old safe left in the middle of the kitchen table until I already have a cup of coffee brewed and in hand.
“What the heck?” I say out loud, instantly searching the house for any sign of Brenden.
But there’s only the safe with a note taped to the top.
You’re ready for this. And I’m sorry.
Nothing else, but I know Brenden’s handwriting.
I study the lock for a long time. I know what he wants me to do. It’s obvious. This is the sort of lock I’ve been practicing on. Nothing fancy, a standard, consumer-grade model, easily defeated with a bit of skill, but I don’t want to do it.
Part of me wants to rebel.
Screw him and his games. Why put me through this? Why not talk to me like a normal human being?
I know this is the best he can do. Brenden’s whole life has been defined by sneaking through the shadows. Secrets are all he has, the marrow in his bones, and I can relate to that. Where he’s been a shadow, I’ve been a spotlight, but that’s a type of hiding too. I can play a role, try to be the girl everyone wants me to be. Try to live up to Annie’s perfection even if that’s not possible. That’s safer than the alternative.
Exactly like keeping himself hidden away is safer than revealing himself.
In the end, I can’t help it. I grab my pick set and get to work, cursing Brenden the entire time. I jiggle the tumblers into place and am rewarded with a wonderfulclunkingsound as the door swings open. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m disappointed to find a single folder with papers stacked inside.
I take the dossier out, open it up, and nearly drop it.
Most of the information is typed. But half the numbers were scratched out and neatly replaced by tight, tiny script. Notes are meticulously scrawled in the margins.
I know that handwriting. It’s too damn familiar.
Sam wrote these words.
But what the hell am I looking at?
I collapse into a chair, coffee balanced on a knee, as I flip through the pages and try to understand.
Why did Brenden want me to see this? What could it all mean? Names and figures repeat, locations, percentages, and a pattern emerges. Sam mentions poker more than once, and the sums are staggering in a few places. I know these people, and if this is a tally of what they owe… at some game Sam was running…
I jump to my feet. The coffee mug clattering to the floor and spilling all over. I barely notice. My mouth is dry and my throat is constricted and I feel like I can’t breathe.
The break-in at the house. Davit lying on the cold floor unconscious for God knows how long. That safe hanging open… and Dad so sure he didn’t know what was taken…
I run into the bedroom, ignoring the mess, and throw clothes on.
No more secrets. No more bullshit.
I have to find my husband and I have to kill him.
I bangon the apartment door and wait, seething, dossier tucked under my arm. The building is in a quiet, unglamorous residential area, practically the opposite of where our shared house is. I’d call it ahomebut that implies a familiarity and comfort that I don’t feel right now.
Because how can it be a home if I’ve been sharing it with a fucking liar?
All this damn time. He sat with my family, listened to my father talk about security, offered his stupid insights, even let Sam babble on about gear and con games and all that crap, and all that time he was lying to our faces. Was it ever real? What does any of it mean and how deep does the game go?
I feel dizzy. I’m overwhelmed. But most of all, I’m fucking pissed off.
He seems vaguely surprised to find me at his door. “Tallie. That was?—“
I shove past him. “Time to talk, you piece of shit.”
