“Shit, you’re right,” Hael says as he turns the car around and carefully eases us to the end of the alley. I’m guessing he’s parked here to stay out of sight of Sara Young. We’ve been checking daily for any GPS tracking devices on the car, but so far, so good. Might not stay that way for long though. “Red would be best for me and Callum, in honor of my being a whore and all that.” Hael pulls us out into the street and then starts heading in the direction of the Fuller neighborhood.

Fuller is a much easier neighborhood to steal from than Oak River Heights or Oak Park, the two ritziest neighborhoods in the city. It’s nice and middle-class and easygoing. Piece of cake.

“Stop calling yourself a whore,” Bernie commands, looking into the rearview mirror and trying to meet Hael’s eyes. “You’re mine now; those days are over.” He chuckles at her, but he doesn’t argue. Why should he? All Hael Harbin has ever wanted is Bernadette. Same as me. Same as Vic or Aaron or even Oscar.

We’re in endgame mode now.

We just need to finish her list, reclaim the school, consume the city.

Victor’s inheritance will give us the means to do exactly that.

“Can we get bubble tea while we’re out?” I ask, feeling my stomach rumble painfully. I love food, and snacking, but when we’re at school, I try to stick with Pepsi and cigarettes for lunch for the most part. Helps with the image, you know? People look at me and Oscar and wonder why we never eat, if we’re even human at all.

“Bubble tea? That’s the prissiest shit I’ve ever heard in my life,” Hael snorts, and Bernadette flicks him in the back of the head.

“I happen to like bubble tea, and I’m not prissy at all, now am I?” she retorts, scooting closer to me and putting her hand on my knee. I find myself mesmerized by the way her fingers trace the scars there, intimately, lovingly. My cock stiffens in my shorts, but I just lean back and weave my arms together behind my head, not wanting her to stop what she’s doing.

“You’re not, no,” Hael says, weaving us through quiet suburban streets rather than main thoroughfares. It’s much safer this way, harder for anyone to tail us or predict our route. “But Callum used to be. Such a pretty prima ballerina, am I right?”

“I can still kick your ass,” I respond with a grin, which is true. We both know it is. Hael’s strengths lie in other areas: explosives, cars, seemingly endless amounts of good humor.

“Fair point,” he says as Oscar casually rests an elbow on the door and gazes out the window like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. “So, Bernie, tell me: what sort of dress you want for this dumbass dance? Personally, I’d just like to spend the entire night snorting coke, but I’m guessing that’s not gonna happen.”

“Not unless we manage to subdue every enemy we have in the next two weeks,” I say, watching as Bernie’s black fingernails with their coffin-shaped tips stroke up my thigh. Holy shit, I could get used to this. Our eyes meet, and I end up tugging her into my lap. Cuddling is not something I’ve had a lot of practice at, but I’m willing to learn. “Fuck, you smell nice.”

“I could say the same to you,” she whispers back, seemingly happy for me to keep holding her. One of her hands slides up and under the bottom of my hoodie, stroking my lower abs. If she isn’t careful, I’ll probably blow another load in my pants. “Let’s get something short and fun,” she says finally, letting out a long exhale. “Something pink. That was my sister’s favorite color.”

There’s a long moment of silence that follows her statement.

There isn’t a man in that car who doesn’t feel like he failed Bernie by letting Penelope die.

“I don’t think she really committed suicide,” Bernadette says as Hael finds a lucky parking spot in the downtown Fuller area. It’s bustling with ridiculously normal looking people, people who look like mannequins to me, so perfect and free of pain. That, or they’re just really good at hiding it. The entire street is strung-up with Christmas lights and garland, too, reminding me that Christmas is less than three weeks away. It’s my grandmother’s least favorite holiday; she gets weird around Christmas.

I wonder if that’s because she killed my mother around that time of year?

Who the fuck knows?

“You think Neil murdered her?” Hael asks, but now that Neil Pence is buried six feet deep, it’d be nearly impossible for anyone to know the truth. That is, unless Sara Young knows something we don’t.

“I have no idea,” Bernadette says, drawing her hand back from me and falling into her pain all at once. I won’t let her though; a good dancer always keeps his partner from hitting the floor. My fingers grab her chin, and I put my lips to hers, kissing her slow and long and deep.

“If you want to start digging for more information, I’ll help you. We might never know, now that Neil is gone, but we can certainly try.” I look into her eyes as I talk, forgetting for a moment that there’s anyone else around us. The expression on her face makes every horrible thing I’ve ever had to do worth it.

“Thank you. I just might start playing detective myself,” she says, and then Hael is opening the car door and gesturing us out with a grand sweep of his arm.

“Pick a store,” he tells her as Oscar stands idly nearby. “Any store, and let’s motherfucking rob it.”

Bernadette smirks, looks around for a moment, and then points out a boutique down the block.

“That one,” she says, and then she spends the next few hours showing us that her fingers are just as sticky as anyone else’s in Havoc.

We leave that street with nearly two grand in merchandise, a beautiful pink cocktail dress, and shoes that make my cock so hard it hurts. Oscar barely says anything, but he watches Bernie. Always watching …

Bernadette Blackbird

On Sunday, I text Officer Young to let her know that I have a free hour or so before my husband needs his dinner. Eye roll. Having to pretend that I’m some weak cow, sniveling before the power of Havoc, is infuriating. I hate every second of it.

“Bernadette,” Sara says as she opens her door and smiles at me. It takes the power of every molecule in my fucking body to force a smile back. Why are you following me, woman? What the fuck? “Come on in.”

I nod and step inside Sara’s sweet-smelling little house. She’s very clearly a fan of Hobby Lobby—fuck that store and everything it stands for—because there are decorations on every available surface and crammed onto every single white wall in the place. You know the kind, the ones that say Beautiful Disaster or God Bless This Mess. I gag a little but manage to keep my shit together.

This place is literally the opposite of everything I know.

There’s a small, formal looking living room to my left, a dining room on the right, and a hallway that leads down to what’s probably the only bedroom and bathroom in the place. Sara takes me right, and I see that the kitchen’s semi-open to the dining area.

“Have a seat,” she tells me, gesturing at the country-white stools in front of the kitchen peninsula. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Coffee, if you have it,” I say, and she gives me a very patronizing sort of look.