Page 180 of Darling Venom
“Terry is a talentless hack.”
“He’s one of the most celebrated authors alive.”
“He’s a fraud.”
“You haven’t even read The Imperfections. You said it yourself.”
“I don’t need to read The Imperfections to know he’s a talentless hack. He’s the last person you should ask for help.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Her arms crossed. She tapped her feet against the hardwood. “I’m waiting.”
“Because he plagiarized The Imperfections!” I jerked forward, my movement erratic.
Her arms dropped to her sides.
Her feet stilled.
“Excuse me?”
“He admitted it himself.”
“Impossible.”
“Did you know Terry asks about Darling Venom every goddamn day?”
As soon as she averted her eyes, I knew he’d asked her about it, too. So predictable. Some people never changed.
“Of course, he asks about it. It’s his son’s book.”
“Terry has never met a temptation he hasn’t given in to. It’s who he is. It’s who he’s always been. I doubt he’s asking for Darling Venom out of the goodness of his own heart.”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Give him a chance, Tate. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Like you’re giving Leah?” I shook my head. “Terry’s had a second chance. And a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. So many chances, I’ve run out of fingers to count them.” I released a laugh, drier than Mother Teresa’s dry spell. “Kellan didn’t know Terry plagiarized The Imperfections, and he wasted his life idolizing his dad for nothing. Look where that got him, Charlie.”
“But—”
“Don’t go to Terry. It won’t end well. It never does.”
I knew it was a bad idea as soon as it went through my head. But my impulse control was shot these days.
Ran in my DNA, I supposed.
I was Terrence Marchetti’s son, after all. Which was the excuse I went with as I slid into my Lexus for the first time in a while and cruised to an area of the city farther north than I ever frequented.
Morris Heights consisted of multi-unit townhomes and apartment complexes, built after a wave of arson in the seventies. They lined the streets, dominated by mid-height tenements, vacant lots, and steep stairs that explained the shape of Charlotte Richards’ buns of steel.
I parked in the only spot I could find and bore the unusual heat, cursing the hills with each step. At this point, I was actively ignoring all the signs I shouldn’t have come. I needed one I couldn’t brush off.
Lightning strike.
Heart attack.
Stroke.
You there, God? Take your pick.
I passed a few mom-and-pop restaurants. A shit ton more stairs. And finally, I found myself in front of Charlie’s apartment complex, waiting for someone to buzz in so I could slip through like a stalker.
