Six Brothers

Three

“Dornan,” I say gently, tracing the deep lines etched beneath his eyes with my fingertip. “We need to get dressed. The service starts soon.”

It is just after eight, and the funeral procession and motorcade for Chad will be starting in a few hours. I am equal parts excited and terrified, a newfound determination to get this thing finished settled in my gut like a layer of concrete: heavy, pressing, and always there to remind me what it is I need to do.

I’m growing impatient. I have six men left to kill, and I’ve already been here for almost a month. Killing them one by one is going to become inefficient at some point in the very near future but for now, I am stuck with the methods I’ve got and this is the best I can do.

Dornan opens his eyes, raking his gaze over me.

“You’re wearing gym clothes to a fucking funeral?” he asks me, his gravelly voice scratching at my skin from the inside out.

“I went for a run,” I explain. “I’ll jump in the shower now.”

He grabs hold of my wrist, pulling me back towards his face. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

I lay my hand on his cheek. “I just ran around the block a bunch of times,” I say, pressing my lips to his forehead briefly. “I was never more than a hundred feet from you. The boys were counting my laps for me.”

It’s a lie, but one he buys. He releases his grip and closes his eyes again, sinking back into his pillow. I’m unsure what to do at this point. I can’t stand to be around him, but I have to play my part.

I have to finish this.

And I still have to find that fucking videotape, the one that will ensure that the world will know what Dornan Ross and his sons did to me and to the people I loved.

I undress and walk naked into the en suite, glancing behind me. It’s at this point that Dornan would normally drag me back into bed, but this morning is different. I stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching silently as Dornan pulls on jeans and shrugs into a shirt.

He is almost at the door when I reach down and grab his leather coat.

“Dornan,” I say quietly. He turns, slowly, wearily, and a small thrill shoots down my spine as I see the total devastation etched onto his face.

I take a step forward and hold the jacket out in front of my naked form.

“It’s cold out there,” I say.

He takes the jacket and flashes me a tired smile. It’s the most gentle gesture he’s ever displayed in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I lie through my teeth. “I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.”

He nods, licking his lips slowly. He slings the jacket over his shoulder and opens the door to the hallway.

“You and me both, baby girl.”

He closes the door behind him and I back into the bathroom, leaning against the counter for a moment. Sunlight is streaming through the small window set high in the bathroom wall, and it hits my eyes, dazzling me. I close my eyes, those first rays of the day’s sun kissing my cheekbones, and I take a deep breath, savouring the small moment of peace and the way the morning breeze caresses my face. Fresh air and solitude is almost impossible to come by in this place, but here, today, I feel a sense of calm and stillness that makes everything seem right.

Eventually, the sun moves higher in the sky, the breeze turns colder, and I step into the shower, letting the hot water fall over me. I take my time massaging suds into my hair before letting the steady stream of hot water run over my head and face, as if cleansing me of my sins.

I dress slowly, savoring every moment. A plain black dress that stops at the knee and cinches at the waist, capped sleeves and a modest neckline. Black patent heels. A slash of red lipstick and some mascara, and I’m ready.

Ready for the performance of my life.