Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(37)

THREE YEARS LATER





As a kid, I despised Christmas.

The memories associated with it—my parents’ split, my mother’s first overdose—soured my attitude toward the holiday pretty early on, and it didn’t help that no one could ever seem to get me a decent gift.

Year after year, I’d hold my breath, hoping someone had paid enough attention to me to be able to pick something I liked.

All I ever opened was crushing disappointment.

This year, I’m buying my own gifts.

Partly because I’m spending the season alone, but also because I’m trying to practice self-love at my brother’s girlfriend’s insistence.

We have over a month until Christmas, but Fiona’s been dragging me all over Lunar Cove trying to find the perfect gift since she flew in yesterday.

Which wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal, except that Lunar Cove is a lake town in the foothills outside of Denver, and with their population maxing at about five hundred residents, there aren’t very many places to buy things that aren’t souvenirs.

“What about this?” she asks, showing me a purple tie-dyed snow suit, raising her brows from across the clothing rack.

I make a face, continuing to sift through the hangers on my side. “Do I look like someone who wears tie-dye?”

Pursing her lips, Fiona glances down at my black sweater, thick black leggings, and black leather knee-high boots.

Sighing wistfully, she snaps the hanger back on the rack. “I was really hoping that hair color of yours would lead to a change in your wardrobe style.”

Reaching up, I pull my fingers through the rose gold strands that graze the tops of my breasts. I’ve been letting it grow ever since I started dyeing it, eager to put as much distance between me and my past self as possible.

That’s what the move here was about, after all.

When Kal Anderson said he was going to kill me, he hadn’t been exaggerating. For the last three years, Riley Kelly has ceased to exist, and her rumored death got about the response I always anticipated it would.

No one fucking cared.

Aside from my absentee father, who left Maine not long after my obituary ran in the newspaper, my death didn’t cause so much as a ripple in our community.

On the one hand, Kal assured me it was a good thing—if no one cared, no one was going to question it, either.

On the other hand… no one cared. My life had left as much of an impact on the world as my own mother’s, and that realization stung.

But once the plan was set in motion, there was no turning back. On the outside, I haven’t been Riley since that day in my brother’s office and having a clean slate has been nice.

During the day, when I’m doing freelance web design for clients that Boyd sends my way or exercising at the athletic club down the road from my house, it’s easy to pretend the slate isn’t stained on one side.

That I’m not just trying to keep myself distracted, because my demons lurk when I’m not actively keeping them away.

Nightmares in the shape of tattooed limbs and the scent of spicy cardamom plague my sleep every night, where I’m unable to outrun my subconscious.

Fiona’s exhale draws me out of my thoughts, and she holds up a wooden pocketknife, the word boss engraved on the side. She raises an eyebrow expectantly, and I return her stare with a bland expression.

“Shopping is supposed to be fun,” she whines, noisily putting the knife back on the display. “If I knew you were going to be grumpy, I would’ve just gone with your brother.”

I turn to inspect a spinning rack of designer sunglasses, ignoring the pang that shoots through my chest. “He still refusing to come visit?”

She looks down at the French tips of her nails. “He just needs a little time, Ril—” Cutting herself off, she presses her red lips together and sighs again. “It’s hard for him, not having you near where he can keep an eye on you.”

“Well, it’s not exactly been a picnic for me,” I hiss, lowering my voice.

One look at the front of the souvenir shop tells me the cashier—my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Lindholm—has her eyes glued to us, watching intently for a piece of drama to gossip about at the marina.

“Look, all I’m saying is give him some time. He is trying.”

“It’s been three years, Fi. I’ve talked to Kal Anderson more in that time than my own brother.”

Her eyes soften. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

Frustrated, I ball my hands into fists and bite down on the inside of my cheek. I’m not sure how many times I have to explain the reasoning behind why I reached out to Kal instead of Boyd, but nonetheless, it’s obvious I haven’t yet reached the limit.

Maybe it doesn’t help that I never told anyone about the mysterious envelope, hoping that if I ignored its existence, the problem would go away on its own.

And that has been the most successful part of this entire plan—whoever sent the envelope has yet to come to collect or expand on their supposed knowledge.

Regardless, the topic of my brother exhausts me, and I leave Lunar Cove Trading Co. empty-handed. Per our weekend tradition, when Fiona flies into town, providing me with the only real human contact I get outside our residents, we stop by Dahlia’s Diner for chocolate milkshakes and walk along the makeshift boardwalk.