“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.

“Caffeine isn’t good for teens, Bernadette; you’re not done growing.”

I just stare at her.

“Uh,” I start, trying to figure out how to explain myself without coming off as a raging cunt. “I once got locked in a dark closet for a week with a bucket, some bottled water, and some granola bars. I’m not sure that I give a shit about the effects of caffeine on my growing brain.”

Sara just stares back at me, and this chasm looms between us, one that shows me exactly how difficult it’s going to be for me to connect with her. She likes inspirational signs and thinks coffee is unhealthy for growing kids, and I shot Billie Charter in the shoulder during a drive-by on Monday.

Hmm.

“Is that something you want to talk about?” she asks, dropping the whole coffee-convo and starting a pot without further prompting. I notice she buys Starbucks beans, and I frown even harder. Please. The coffee in South Prescott is next level; no corporately owned coffee place could ever compete.

“Not really,” I respond, trying to keep my lies to a minimum. My eyes rove around the cute, little kitchen with its Joanna Gaines influence and over to an exterior door that leads onto a small deck. Since there are no trees, all I can see are the sides of the neighbor’s houses, all of them in pastel colors. I turn back to Sara, itching to ask why she thought to start following us around. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know she was there or not, and I won’t reveal my hand so easily. “Mostly, I was hoping you’d have some good news about the Thing?”

“The Thing?” Sara echoes, pouring us each a mug of steaming coffee.

My cup says Good Things Come to Those Who Wait on the side of it. I look at it instead of Sara as I respond, uncomfortable as fuck in the hideous yellow dress Oscar made me wear. The look of sheer triumph on his face when he handed it to me made me want to strangle him again. Or let him strangle you, you perv.

I sip the coffee black and Sara goes completely still, freezing with her container of Candy Cane creamer poised over her cup.

“You drink it black?” she asks, clearly surprised.

“You drink it filled with a chemically composed sugar syrup?” I retort back, and she sets the container down.

“What does ‘the Thing’ mean, Bernadette?” she asks, and I notice that she’s been careful to only call me Bernadette after I corrected Constantine about saying Bernie.

“Sorry, Neil,” I correct, taking another sip of coffee. “He isn’t worthy of a name, in my opinion. But then, I’m sure you think of him differently.”

This time, it’s Sara’s turn to just stare back at me, like she’s trying to test my mettle.

“Your stepfather is … a complex man,” she tells me, like she’s trying to be careful with her words. Sara sets her mug down—it’s covered in sparkly butterflies, gag—and sighs heavily. “Look, Bernadette, I want to tell you something, assuming you’re mature enough to handle it.”

Oh, here we go. She’s trying to play the tough savior role with me. It’s beyond annoying. Sure, Sara Young is nice enough, but she doesn’t understand me or anything about my life.

“Hit me with your best shot,” I say, my lips twitching as I remember listening to Pat Benatar in the Ferrari with Hael. Those memories just make me hot and sweaty, and I really don’t want to deal with wet panties right now. Must sip coffee. “Let me guess: you were fucking him too?”

Sara rears back like she’s been punched in the gut.

“He’s married to your mother,” she hisses, clearly furious. It’s obvious from her expression that it’s not that she doesn’t believe Neil would cheat, just that she, herself would never sleep with a married guy. I shrug, and Sara exhales sharply. I’m wearing her patience thin. “Honey, he told me that if anything were to happen to him, that it would be you who did it.”

I pause then, the coffee mug held tight between my tattooed hands. My nails are matte black right now, with coffin tips. I got one of Stacy Langford’s girls to do them on Friday before I … met Cal at his studio. Before he fucked me into the old warehouse floors with his lean dancer’s body, his muscles sweaty beneath my hands, his scars rough but intriguing.

Jesus.

I am not following this Do Not Soak Your Panties rule very well.

“He told you …” I start, and then I set my mug down and just start laughing. Oh, Neil, you fucker. One last hurrah from the grave, huh?

He just couldn’t die in peace, could he? Swear to god, I feel his evil spirit clinging to my shoulders and digging obsidian-tipped claws into my skin. “You will never be free of me, Bernadette; I will haunt you until the day you die like a dog in the gutter.”

For the same reason that Neil would not kill himself with the knife Aaron gave him, he also just couldn’t transition into the depths of hell without leaving a few choice nuggets of bullshit behind for me to deal with.

“What a delusional nut,” I murmur when I finally get control of myself. This time, I don’t look at Sara, staring instead at a brown and cream Siamese cat that’s sitting nearby and staring at us. The cat looks pissed to be honest, tail flicking violently. It reminds me of Oscar. Another sip of coffee. “I plead not guilty to all charges.”