Page 124 of The Grave Artist
Sweeney chuckled. “You got that part right, kid. Husband, yeah. But that’s not his daughter. It’s his girlfriend.” He snickered. “The missus doesn’t get here very often. He keeps her picture there to remind the arm candy she shouldn’t expect a marriage proposal.”
“Asshole.”
Sweeney didn’t argue. He shrugged and continued his monologue: “So some of Christopher’s lenders came to him and said, ‘We won’t take everything you own, if you wash a little money for us.’ He did a good job. And they wanted more. And he did a better job. That was his real calling. He even ended up working for OC.”
“Orange County?”
Sweeney snorted. “Organized crime. The mob. One Marco Mezzo in particular.”
This apparently was meant to impress her. Selina simply shrugged, which she believed disappointed Sweeney, for some reason.
She could see how Fisher had gone down a slippery slope until he was completely compromised. But none of it would’ve happened if he hadn’t been greedy and weak. A man with character would have given up all his possessions rather than commit to a life of crime.
“Everything was fine until your dad found some issues. He called Fisher to ask if there was some mistake. Fisher said there was. Had to be some mix-up. Just give him a few days to track down the oversight ... and then he started going through the dark web for sites where people could find a fixer.
“So, there you have it. Sorry about your pop. He should’ve stopped asking questions. Never a smart thing. Okay. My turn. Was it that bald fuck Nando snitched me out?”
Of course, if she told Sweeney, Nando was dead.
Nando, the bartender who passed messages about jobs to people like Sweeney who tortured, maimed and killed. Nando, who had surely received a cut of the blood money.
Who had also undressed her with his eyes and liquored up an underage girl.
She said, “Yeah, Nando.”
Sweeney’s lip curled. “Figures.” His phone buzzed, and he checked the screen before holding it to his ear. “Go ahead.”
His gaze held hers as he listened. His end of the conversation was minimal.
“Uh-huh ... yeah. It’ll cost extra. Uh-huh. Okay. Deal.”
She was certain it was Fisher and that the two men were bargaining about the fee for making her permanently disappear.
He disconnected and gave her a look that was almost apologetic. “Sorry, kid.”
Selina was struck by one thought: that she would never have the chance to apologize to Carmen for her mistake—in playing detective.
And, more importantly, for those years when she resented her sister for forgiving Roberto, when Selina could not.
There would never be a chance either to tell her how much she respected, and loved, her.
She dropped all pretense of calm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Look, please. I did all this on my own. Nobody else knows. My sister doesn’t. I wanted her to go after Dad’s killer and she said no. There’s no need to hurt her. Please!”
She made peace with her death but wanted to save the one person who meant more to her than anyone else.
In that moment, she truly understood what her father had done—sacrificing himself—and was trying to do the same, even though it would seal her fate.
“No one else knows who you are or where I am,” she said in a shaking voice. “Carmen can’t find you. Let her go. Just ... let her live. Fisher won.”
He gave his head a slow shake as he raised the pistol. “Can’t do that.” He aimed it directly at her once again. “Nothing personal.”
The gunshot filled the air with a thunderous bang and blood spattered in a bold Rorschach pattern over a wall that was the shade of bleached bone.
Chapter 60
“Some people have money but no sense of what art is,” Damon was saying absently as he gazed at the massive abstract, which was probably a naked woman.
Or naked man.
