Page 108 of Twisted Control

Another pause stretches between us. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for mockery. A cruel laugh. Maybe even the click of him hanging up.

“A hitman, huh?” he says at last, sounding more thoughtful than shocked. “Well, that’s useful. Where are you then?”

“I’m at this awful bar downtown,” I admit, accidentally catching the bartender’s eye as he polishes another glass. I force a tight smile and turn the other way. “I don’t have anything. No money, no phone, nothing.”

A shaky breath escapes me that almost turns into a sob.

Finn sighs heavily. “Do you always have to be so dramatic? Go to 45 Hammond Street,” he says. “About twenty minutes north if you walk.”

“What’s at⁠—”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the receiver for a second before slowly lowering it back into place.

The bartender gives me another cautious look. “Everything alright?”

No.

Nothing is alright.

But I smile anyway because apparently that reflex is burned into my DNA.

“Perfect,” I say faintly.

The walk takes almost forty minutes because I’m moving like a wounded flamingo in six-hundred-dollar heels that were never meant for actual walking.

Downtown slowly gives way to quieter streets I barely recognize. The houses shrink. The lawns get smaller and a little wilder. There’s no gates, no perfectly manicured hedges, no luxury cars gleaming in the driveways. Just normal people living in ordinary little houses with bikes abandoned on the grass and porch lights glowing warmly against the growing dark.

My feet are absolutely screaming. One heel keeps catching on cracks in the sidewalk, forcing me to limp.

By the time I finally reach Hammond Street, the sky has gone completely dark.

Number forty-five sits right in the middle of the block. The white paint is peeling in long, sad curls down the siding, and the front garden has grown so wild it’s practically swallowing the narrow concrete path leading to the porch.

I stop and just stare.

Finn cannot possibly know someone who lives here.

For one strange second I wonder if this is some kind of elaborate joke—his final act of cruelty before he washes his hands of me completely.

But I have nowhere else to go.

I make my way slowly up the path, my chest tightening harder with every step. By the time I reach the front door, my legs are shaking so badly I have to brace one hand against the faded siding.

I knock.

A few seconds later I hear soft footsteps inside.

The door opens.

At first, I don’t recognize her.

The woman standing in front of me is wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy updo with a claw clip, silver roots clearly showing at the temples. No blowout. No perfect roots. No glamorous, sexy clothes. No makeup. No diamonds.

“Mom,” I whisper.

Before she can even speak, my knees give out. She catches me immediately, pulling me tightly against her chest as I completely fall apart in her arms.