Page 45 of Femme Fatale
I snorted. “You never wanted a son, you just wanted a meat shield.”
He shrugged, a tic of the shoulders that reminded me of all the times he’d thrown away people like empty packs of smokes. “I wanted a legacy. Same as any man.”
He reached into his breast pocket, drew out a small brass key, and walked behind me. I felt the click of the lock, then the cuffs dropped away. My hands were useless at first, bloodless and stiff, but I shook them out, flexed hard, and got feeling back just in time to catch the gun as it slid across the desk.
Jack’s eyes were on mine now, cold and clear. “Go ahead,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”
I picked up the .45. It was heavy and slick with oil. I sighted down the barrel and lined it up with his nose. My finger found the trigger and curled.
Jack didn’t flinch. He spread his arms, palms up, like a man welcoming the end. “Pull it,” he said, and his lips twitched in a smile.
I wanted to. I wanted to so bad it made my teeth hurt. But my hands were shaking, not from pain, but from memory. I saw mymother on the kitchen floor, blood in her hair, the last look she gave me before Jack threw me out of the room. I saw Simone, hiding in the crawlspace, her face bruised and wet, whispering, “It’s okay, Zeke, just do what he says.” I saw every night he’d made us watch, every time he’d forced us to stand witness to his empire of shit.
My thumb slid off the safety. I could feel the mechanics, every spring and gear, the way the gun wanted to fire. Jack’s eyes narrowed, but the smile never broke.
“Do it,” he said, voice almost gentle. “You always said you’d kill me if I gave you the chance.”
The room shrank to a tunnel, just me and the gun and the man who ruined everything he touched.
But I couldn’t do it.
The gun lowered, the weight of it suddenly too much. I dropped it on the desk, breathing hard.
Jack stepped forward, took the gun, and set it aside. He was so close I could see the tiny veins in his eyes, the dark rings from decades of never sleeping enough.
He knelt, bringing his face level with mine. “You’re weak,” he whispered. “Always were.”
I spat blood, lips numb. “You were a fucking monster. Simone and I—we hated you. We still do.”
Jack stood, fixed his cufflinks, and smoothed his tie. “That’s the point, Zeke. Hate’s the only thing that gets you anywhere. The rest is just decoration.”
He started for the door, then paused, hand on the knob. “Selene’s coming,” he said, not a question. “Do you think she’ll cry when she sees what I’ve made of you?”
I watched him leave, muscles still screaming, every nerve on fire. I wanted to kill him. Maybe I still could. But the truth was, he’d won. He’d always win, because I couldn’t bring myself to be like him.
Not even to save the only family I had left.
The door clicked shut, and I was alone with the taste of my own failure.
***
I spent the next hour staring at the gun on the desk, wishing I’d grown up more like Selene, being ruthless, allergic to regret, always a little bit in love with the end of things. But I was still the kid in the attic, hiding with Simone and a half-dead kitten, listening to my father break every rule and every bone that ever tried to get in his way.
Jack left me alone, but not for long. When he came back, he didn’t say a word. He just paced behind the desk, arranging objects, wiping his glass with a napkin, checking the faces of his fake family in their cheap silver frames. He didn’t have to speak to let me know he was winning. He knew she was coming to kill him. He was just pissed it was taking so long.
He stopped, finally, and met my eyes. “Do you want to try again?” he asked, voice tired but still sharp enough to cut.
I shook my head. “You can shoot me, or you can shut up. Those are the only two moves you’ve got left.”
He sat, hands steepled, the little veins in his temples throbbing. “You always were sentimental,” he said. “It’s disgusting.”
I could feel the anger now, not cold, but boiling. “You killed her,” I said. “You killed Mom, even if you never pulled the trigger. She begged you to stop. She begged, and you laughed.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, then reset. He tapped a finger on the desk. “She was weak. That’s why she died.”
I felt the room tilt, like the floor wanted to collapse, but I wouldn’t let him see it. “Simone’s not weak. She’s better than you. She’s better than both of us.”
He let out a huff, not quite a laugh, more of a release. “Simone is a ghost,” he said. “You did that, not me. She’s hiding out there, scared, waiting for the world to finish her off. Same as you.”
