There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(76)

Which is why it will be difficult to get what I want from her.

“I don’t care what you say to reporters,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing you do can tear me down now.”

“ ‘Cause you’re fucking some artist?” she scoffs. “I know how that works. You’re nothing without him. When he’s tired of you, he’ll toss you aside and you’ll be right back where you started.”

She takes another gulp of wine, the glass more than half gone.

She really believes what she’s saying. The world is so ugly to her. People’s motivations so cruel.

I could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

“You’re telling your story, not mine,” I say.

She sets her glass down hard, a little wine sloshing over the rim.

“You think you’re better than me because you stroll in here in your fancy new clothes, ‘cause you got your name in the paper? I know who you really are. I fucking birthed you. You’re weak, you’re stupid, you’re lazy, and you’re nothing but a filthy little whore. You can paint a billion paintings and not one of them will change what you are inside.”

Triumphantly, she picks the glass up again, downing whatever remains inside.

I watch her swallow it all, my own wine sitting untouched next to me.

“Good,” I say, softly. “Now that you’ve finished, we can address what I actually came here to discuss.”

She frowns, her forehead furrowing.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I reach in the pocket of my suede jacket, pulling out a small bottle of liquid pseudoephedrine.

“I put these drops in your drink. Colorless, tasteless. You might have noticed a little bitterness, but it obviously didn’t stop you drinking it down.”

“You spiked my drink?”

Color rises up her neck, from the collar of my stolen sweatshirt.

“Poisoned it, actually.”

She makes a move to get up from the couch, but she’s already unsteady. Her elbow buckles under her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll be dead before the ambulance arrives.”

“You sneaky little bitch! You filthy nasty—”

“I wouldn’t do that either,” I snap.

She stops talking, her mouth closing like a trap. Her eyes water until the pupils swim, and I can see the shallow hitches of her chest. Some of this is fear, but the rest is the drug taking effect.

“That’s better,” I say, as she sinks back down.

“What the fuck do you want?” she hisses, panting fast.

“I have the antidote. I’ll give it you. I just want to know one thing.”

“What?”

She’s writhing against the cushions, the pseudoephedrine taking hold.

I stare at her, face still as stone, not a hint of sympathy.

“I want to know my father’s name.”

She lets out several irritated hissing sounds, squirming on the cushions. Her face is deeply flushed now, her skin sweating. Her breath grows more and more shallow.

“Fuck you,” she snarls.

“Suit yourself,” I say, standing up from my chair.

“Wait!” she cries.

Tears run down both sides of her cheeks, mixing with the sweat. She clutches the front of the hoodie, pulling it away from her chest as if that will ease the pressure.

“Tell me his name,” I say, quietly, relentlessly.

She’s groaning and writhing, pulling at the shirt.

“Tell me. You don’t have much time.”

“Arghhhh!” she groans, rolling on her side and then on her back again, thrashing around in the blankets, trying to ease the pressure any way she can.

I’m colder than ice. I feel nothing but the relentless drive to squeeze this secret out of her. The one thing of value she could tell me, but she always refused.

“Tell me,” I order, my eyes fixed on her face while she twists in a rictus of agony.

She makes a mumbling sound, drooling a little at the strained edges of her mouth.

“Tell me!”

She shakes her head like a toddler holding its breath, eyes slitted, hatefully obstinate all the way to the end.

“TELL ME!” I roar, and I slap her hard across the face.

The pain jolts her. Fear replaces stubbornness as she finally realizes I’m not fucking around.

“I DON’T KNOW!” she howls, her voice strangling in her throat. “I NEVER KNEW! Are you happy, you fucking cunt? I never knew who he was! I don’t even remember it happening.”

She rolls off the couch, shoving the coffee table with her hip as she falls, toppling the bottle of wine so it tumbles on its side and pours the liquor onto the floor with a steady glug, glug, glug.

I make no move to right the bottle.

I don’t touch my mother, either.

I watch her squirm and buck, her face the color of brick, her hands twisting into claws as she grasps at her chest.

Her mouth moves silently, her lips trying to form the word antidote.

I look down at her, pitiless.

“There is no antidote,” I say. “There never was. Nothing can save you. Just like nothing can change you. You are what you are … dead to me.”

I leave her lying there, twisting and croaking out her last breaths. I won’t even give her the comfort of my company. She can die alone, like she was always going to.