Page 47 of Queen of Madness

Someone calls my name. I’m not sure who. All I can think about is her. Her blood.

It’s on the roses.

Why am I moving?

Why is the car moving?

Go back.

GO BACK!

My words won’t come out. All I can hear is the guttural roar burning my throat.

I have to save my father.

I can still save him!

Please, go back...

But it’s too late.

The same machete that was just used to slice my mother’s head off is sticking in my father’s chest, right at his heart.

I hear the gun I was holding clatter to the carpeted floorboard. I hear the squeal of tires. I hear the beating of my heart.

But I can’t see.

There’s only white.

White roses and dripping blood.

It’s the last thing I remember before blackness finally moves in and takes me.

Another two weeks pass, and I have nothing of real value to tell the Murphys. Each day, my routine is always the same. Wake up, eat breakfast, take Onyx hers, and interchange between walking the grounds, surveying the monitors, and standing by the office while she works.

It’s not a necessity, but listening to her, and watching how she reacts to the conversations has taught me her tells I wouldn’t have otherwise picked up on.

When something works in her favor without much effort, her lips draw down in the corners, almost as if she’s disappointed. It’s almost as if she’s disappointed in how easy it is, or maybe boring. When she has to throw around her weight and use some lightly threatening words, she sits up straighter, and her eyes get slightly lighter.

But my favorite is when she catches me staring, watching, studying. She always tilts her head back an inch—a power move meant to be a silent challenge. Her blinks become slow, and the smallest grin curves her lips.

What she probably doesn’t know is that the very top of her ears turns pink. It’s the faintest blush I’m sure no one even notices. But I do.

I notice everything about her.

Like how she chews on the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking. How she only tends to the red roses in her garden and never the white. She only goes swimming when the sun is tucked away and the clouds are moments from breaking apart with rain.

She perks up when any member of the family comes into her office, but always schools her features as if she’s not happy to see them. As if they’re business partners and nothing more.

I want to know why she does that. I want to know why she does all of it. How she can be so fucking commanding and intimidating and hide every soft part of herself, even from the people she trusts the most. There’s more to it than needing to project Boss energy. Something happened. Something that keeps her from growing deep attachments.

She’s learned a very hard lesson in more than one way, and I need to figure out what it was.

“You’re a little lost, Ezekiel Kane.” Caterina’s low voice steals me from my thoughts.

I look through the open door to my right where Cat sits in a massive beanbag chair, legs folded beneath her, smoking from her hookah. I’ve been this way multiple times when making my rounds, but never have I seen inside this particular room.

In the bed next to her chair is an older man, asleep in the middle. Thick pillows are placed behind him, propping him up slightly, while the white sheets are drawn up to his stomach and folded at the edge. An oxygen tank as well as an IV hang on the side while the green light on the display shows his heartbeat. His pale face is serene, his breathing calm as he rests.

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