Page 21 of Inside the Wicked

I hate that I’ve grown bitter and resentful, but after everything, my father has never apologized for how he condemned Rhett as a criminal despite the hurt I carry. I don’t care that our secret is out—that I clearly loved him to be hurting this much. It doesn’t change his harsh judgment of Rhett. I’ve disappointed him. In my father’s eyes, I’m mourning a monster and I should move on with my life, focus on my prospects.

“I’m not sure,” I say. It’s pitiful, but it’s the truth to them at least.

I’m sure he would disown me as a daughter completely if he knew where I really spend my time. If he finds out I’ve picked up what Rhett started, and that I won’t stop until Alistair Lanshall is torn to pieces from the inside out.

“You can’t lock yourself away in that apartment forever,” he says with a hint of sourness that makes me sink internally.

I feel like I lost a father months ago too, and what kills me is that I don’t know if the daughter he wants is ever coming back.

“You’ll figure it out, honey,” Mom says, always trying to add amity to the tense room. “Teaching was strongly on your mind, remember? And you raised funds that are still waiting to go toward opening that school you always wanted.”

I partially smile because this is a fond memory, a dream I wish I could hold ... but everything hopeful turns to sand in my hands, and I wish I could pass it to someone else.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing my salad around my plate. “Maybe someday.”

If I survive the trenches of the underworld with Rhett by my side, perhaps I can dare to dream again.

“You’re still taking part in the Young Musicians performance, aren’t you? We’ve all been looking forward to it,” Mom says.

I agreed to play my violin in the live show here at the White House that will be broadcast on TV. My parents wouldn’t stop asking even when my initial response was no. It’s a huge step up in overcoming my nerves from the Christmas party last year. I caved eventually, if only because I couldn’t suffer another look of disappointment from my father. I don’t think he would have pushed, and maybe his anger is because my mom is saddened by my distance.

“Yes,” I say tightly.

I can plaster on a smile for the cameras, get one song over with, then leave the party before I suffocate in the company of people so oblivious to the dark world I’m holding hands with. I don’t want to dine and drink and laugh as though the world is turning and nothing else matters but our wealth.

“Wonderful!” Mom exclaims.

It’s a deceptive kind of cheer. She doesn’t fully believe I’ll show, but I’ve sworn that commitment to myself no matter what. I feel guilt for the pain I seem to be causing her—this small agreement is a Band-Aid on a relationship I hope can be salvaged.

I just need Rhett back, and for all that has wronged us to be taken down. Then, in the peace we deserve and have bled for, maybe we can rebuild and become far stronger together than when we met as two separate wandering souls.

After dinner I have to release all the pent-up tension.

I train my focus on the aim of the gun between my hands and shoot five rounds. I’m getting better at target practice, justnot good enough yet. I can aim for the chest and they’ll all hit the area, but I want more. A precision that will ensure my aim is absolute enough to make five shots look like one.

They’re getting closer.

“Decent,” Kenna says when I take off the ear defenders.

I’m at a range on the outskirts of Washington D.C., needing away from Alistair’s manor even though he has a small setup for shooting there. I don’t deign to ask how Kenna found me, nor how long she was watching before she made herself known.

“I’m going to assume you call everything less than your skill ‘decent,’” I mutter.

“Probably,” she says, folding her arm and looking out over the paper figure set up at the far end. “It takes practice—a lotof practice.”

I watch as she pulls her own gun from a holster under her leather jacket. She checks the clip, and I listen to a series of quick clicks as she handles the weapon like a seasoned expert. Kenna takes a beautifully lethal stance, and I admire her form. Then she shoots, eight times in quick succession, before changing the round as if she could do so in her sleep and firing another full round.

I’m so busy gawking at her poise and unflinching confidence that I don’t watch where the bullets go. She fits her gun away and turns to me, no smugness, no hint of any emotion.

Then I look at her paper target.

The first round all hit dead center of the target’s forehead; the second made an eerie smiling face on the chest, with two holes for eyes, six curving in a mouth.

Holy shit.

“How long have you been with Alistair?” It’s the first question to come to mind at her masterful skill level since she doesn’t appear much older than me.

Kenna folds her arms, leaning against the side of the shooting booth. She wears a low black tank top under her leather jacket, tucked into tight black jean pants and modest, wide-heeled ankle boots.

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