Page 22 of The Bonds We Break
“Yeah. Sure. So, like the Taliban. We take out three of them, right? Then six more show up to take their place. If take out the six, then nine more would reappear. It’s like every act against them doubles their response.”
“Nine is not the double of six,” Vex notes, and I bite back a smirk.
“Whatever. You get what I’m saying,” Halo says.
Vex nods. “I do. These guys are fucking dangerous. Leaving any of them breathing is a really bad idea. I don’t think letting sleeping dogs lie is the right action.”
“We took out some dude’s brother when they tried to rip us off at that deal in the Pines.” Halo tugs a hand through his long hair. “To get revenge for that, they tried to take down Spark, which led to Iris. I dunno. I don’t feel like they’ll let us off the hook for taking out so many of their Brotherhood. We need to stay on them, make sure they can’t catch us unawares. Revenge begets revenge.”
I form a fist and bounce it on the bar top twice as I fight off thoughts of Rae’s comments about Hamlet. “Let’s watch them. But no more action. We won’t attack them, but we’ll keep tracking them to make sure they don’t retaliate. Perhaps they’ve learned not to mess with us. Let’s see if we can’t put an end to what happened.”
“All of it, Prez? Or just the brotherhood?” I know what Halo is asking me. Am I ready to put an underscore beneath Saint and his betrayal too? I think of Rae in the cabin.
“Focus on the brotherhood,” I say. “Get a watch set up.”
I grab my lunch and leave the two men in the bar. This time when I step into the office, I puff out my chest and slam the door behind me.
Ghosts don’t exist.
They hold no power over us.
Revenge feeds the pieces inside me that no one else understands.
I unwrap the bag of food and pull out the sandwich Gwen made me. As I savor the sweet and salty flavor of grape jelly and peanuts, I wonder if Rae has figured out that I hid the rest of her electronics.
9
RAE
Istare at the safe.
I found it. In a closet. Hidden behind shit I assume was put there to make sure someone couldn’t find it easily. It’s an ugly green thing with a dial.
I am many things. An academic. A psychologist and therapist. A keen gardener, A lover of literature. A master of winged eyeliner. But one thing I am definitely not is a safecracker. Even if someone gave me a stethoscope to listen for the magical click when you turn the dial, I still wouldn’t figure it out.
“Well played, Uther,” I mutter, using his real name.
I’m utterly unsurprised that a man named after King Uther Pendragon—who, legend has it, got Merlin to disguise him so he could sleep with another man’s wife—doesn’t play fair. King is the only reason my laptop and diary are missing from my belongings. And the safe is the only place he could’ve hid them.
Mentally, I scroll through my planner, trying to remember who I was scheduled to speak with today. While all my clients are important to me, some of their situations are more precarious than others. While I’m glad King let me message them to let them know I would be away, I wish I wasn’t missing them at all.
Channeling my frustration, I decide to set the cottage to rights. I don’t really want to clean up. I’m not hugely domestic. But it’s dusty and has the lingering smell of smoke, so I throw on a thick hoodie and get to it.
In no time, I have every window in the place open and the fireplace at a solid roar. It’s going to get colder before it gets warmer with all the fresh, crisp air I’m letting in. I find some basic cleaning supplies. A liquid soap, some cloths, a mop but no vacuum. Thankfully, there is a washing machine.
I strip the bed and wash that first, along with the two towels from the bathroom. There’s no way of telling when they were last laundered, and it will be a cold day in hell before I shower and then use a towel that may or may not have been wrapped around someone else’s body.
My cleaning frenzy finds a rhythm that starts to become almost meditative. I feel a real sense of accomplishment as things get done. The bathroom loses its grime, even though it never fully returns to white. The dust is wiped from the living room. I tied a thin rope I found in the cupboard between the handle of an upper cabinet door and a coat hook on the other side of the living room. Hanging the larger pieces of bedding over it so they can dry in the clash of cold air and hot fire feels like something to be proud of.
“Look at me crushing homemaking,” I say out loud.
I make a pitiful chicken sandwich that is literally butter, chicken, and bread for lunch. It makes me yearn for all the amazing baby salad greens I grow in the summer. Mâche, spinach, arugula, and oak leaf lettuce. And I swear there is no better smell than a freshly picked tomato that has been ripened by the sun.
By the time I close the windows, the sky has turned gray. It might even snow. Which makes me wonder about being stuck up here if it does. What will happen if the electricity cuts out? I don’t think King mentioned a backup generator, but I’m too nervous to step foot outside to check.
I saw some candles while I was cleaning. And I found about fifteen cigarette lighters. Thinking it’s better to be prepared, I decide to build an emergency pile so I know where everything is. I gather the flashlight and batteries and collect the candles and lighters. At a push, I can cook the meat on the fireplace and put anything cold from the fridge outside.
Just as I decide to look for blankets and maybe wash them in case it gets cold, the front door kicks open, and King walks in. He closes the door behind him, drops his saddle bags on the floor, and hangs his jacket. It’s only when he turns to face the room that he takes in what I’ve done.
