He dropped his forehead to hers. “That’s a damn sneak attack.”
“The twenty-third, Reed, because you’ll have ended this. I’m moving in. CiCi, you’ll come to dinner.”
“I’ll bring champagne.”
“I’ll need to keep my studio here until Reed and I finalize the design and plans for my workspace at … our house.”
“It’s always here for you, my clever, clever girl.”
“That day, the twenty-third, it’s going to be a symbol for us,” she told him. “A reminder that whatever terrible things happen, we’re together.”
“I think this calls for a big pitcher of sangria.”
Reed shook his head at CiCi. “I can’t. I’ve got to get back. Stay here,” he told Simone. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Come on, Barney, we’re not going to get anywhere with these two. Cast in the same damn mold.”
“That’s why you love us,” CiCi called as Reed walked out. “I’m proud of you, Simone.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me, too.”
*
As Reed completed another patrol, Patricia sat in her war room, sipping a gin and tonic—heavier on the gin as time passed. It felt like a waste to pour it down the sink.
And the gin made a nice change of pace from scotch.
A couple of drinks—or three—helped her sleep. How was she supposed to sleep without a little help when her mind was so full, so busy?
It wasn’t like her father—she didn’t get drunk, did she? It wasn’t like her mother. She wasn’t using the booze to wash down pills.
She just needed a little help to calm her mind. Nothing wrong with that.
So, sipping gin, she studied her maps, her time lines, the photos taken with her phone.
The fact that two of her top targets were lovebirds both infuriated and delighted her. They didn’t deserve even an hour of happiness. But then again, she would slit their happiness at the throat and watch it bleed dry. And with a little more time—she still had a little more time—to observe the bitch, maybe she’d kill two birds with one stone.
On the other hand, she thought as she rose to pace, she’d always planned to take out the bitch who’d called the cops last. She still had a half dozen targets on her board, leading up to the cunt cop who’d killed JJ, then finishing it off with the interfering little bitch who’d hidden like a coward.
She’d come this far following the plan, she assured herself, and had the cops and FBI running in circles. She should stick with the plan. If JJ had stuck with the plan …
It hadn’t been his fault, she thought, rapping a restless fist on her thigh as she paced and sipped, paced and sipped. Simone Knox killed JJ, and she wouldn’t forget it.
So, maybe if—and only if—the opportunity fell into her lap, she’d take the bitch out early. Otherwise.
She picked up her gun, aimed it at Reed’s picture. “It’s just you and me, asshole. And taking you out? Yeah, that’s going to break your little whore’s heart—and the cunt cop’s, too. Delicious tears. That works for me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sometimes the gin and tonic, the pacing, the planning, didn’t work. To relax, to calm the increasing busyness of her mind, Patricia indulged in her favorite late-night pastime.
In the beach cottage she’d grown to hate—and planned to burn to the ground before she left the island—with the doors locked, curtains drawn, Patricia switched to scotch on the rocks and watched her video.
It enthralled and entertained her, no matter how often she viewed it.
She looked good! Damn good. Long gone was the fat girl with pimples and bad hair who’d sat in her room watching TV and learning how to hack.
In fact, she looked amazing, trim and fit in the camera-friendly red dress she’d chosen. “Body conscious” they called it, she mused as she started it over from the beginning. Flawless makeup, but her. No contacts to change eye color, no appliances, no wig.
All Patricia.
She looked better than that hack reporter, that’s for sure. Younger, stronger, and damn it, prettier, too. Maybe she should have taken the time to press out the suit McMullen wore—it looked like she’d—ha ha!—slept in it.
But it didn’t matter. Patricia Hobart was the star, just as she was meant to be.
Gone was the girl who’d dreamed of being important, who’d curled up in the dark and imagined killing the boy who’d dubbed her Patty the Porker, the girls who’d stolen her panties and pinned them to the elephant, her mother, her grandparents, the perfect families she saw in the mall.
Dreaming, dreaming of killing all of them, all of them.
All of them.
Crunching on sour cream and onion chips (a well-earned reward, just this one time), she listened to herself. How clearly she told her story, told the world how mistreated and abused she’d been. Her parents, her grandparents, teachers, fucking bullying kids. She laughed, as she always did, when she got to the part about the asshole kid taking that header off the bike she’d rigged, busting up his face.
She wished, how she wished, he’d broken his neck.
See how smart she’d been? She’d been born smarter than anyone else. The video proved it.
And look how fascinated McMullen looked. Hear that awe in her voice? She’d known she’d been outclassed. She understood what kind of brains, what kind of will, it took to accomplish all Patricia Hobart had accomplished.
Too bad McMullen had started babbling, had shown herself to be what she’d always been. Just another opportunist looking to get rich, to get in front of the cameras and brag.
“Too bad you pissed me off,” Patricia muttered, pouring another finger of scotch before she fast-forwarded to the kill.
Her only regret there? She hadn’t thought to step out, move into camera range. She’d have enjoyed watching herself raise the gun and fire. But McMullen made up for it, made her laugh again.
“There it is, shocked face, and bang, bang, bang.” Howling with laughter, she grabbed more chips. “Talk about a ratings bonanza! But not for you.”
No, not for you, she thought as she went back, chose the clip. One where she was the star, one where she told the frigging world that before her fifteenth birthday, she’d had the brains, the skills, the freaking vision to begin to plan a mass shooting the size and scope of DownEast.
She studied it again, and once again, nodding, nodding, pleased with her own clarity, approving what she thought of as the stunned admiration on McMullen’s face.
There, only a scant mile and a quarter from Reed’s home, she hacked into some dumb-shit in Nashville’s Facebook account, attached the video to his wall.
Just the start, she thought, and decided she deserved another drink. After the twenty-second, after she—ha ha again—shot the sheriff, she’d send another clip to the FB fucking I.
With satisfaction, she looked up at her wall of targets, pointed a finger.
“Then, Chaz Four-Eyes Bergman, you’re up.” She lifted the scotch to toast him. “New York, here I come.”
She started the video over, watched it all again.
*
“I’m so glad you came.” In her studio, Simone clung to Mi. “I wish you didn’t have to go so soon. One day isn’t enough.”
“I’ll see you at Nari’s wedding in September. You and CiCi. You’ll bring Reed.”
“I will. Then you’ll come for Nat’s wedding in October.”
“Absolutely. And I’ll be back in December for CiCi’s big bash. A one, two, three. But … Come with me, Sim—I have to ask again. You and CiCi come back to Boston with me for a few days.”
“You know why I can’t. Reed shouldn’t have asked you to try to persuade me.”
“He loves you. I love you.”
“I know. It’s why he asked, and why you came. I love him, so I can’t go. I love you, so you have to.”