Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(11)

Alistair chuckles. “Jonas was my plus-one. It’s a bad look to show up to these events without them, wouldn’t you say, Lionel?”

The two men stare at each other for a beat, and Mr. Rafferty clears his throat, apparently uncomfortable with the direct spotlight.

“Well, I wouldn’t bring competition.” Mr. Rafferty shakes his head. “Aren’t you worried you’ll be pitted against each other for the Primrose girl’s hand?”

“Neither of us is interested in dating a Primrose,” I say.

“Of course, you aren’t,” Mr. Rafferty replies, laughing. “Tom would probably rather sell her to the mob than let her date the likes of you.”

My jaw clenches, but I force it to relax. It’s obvious the man is trying to rile me up, though I’m not sure why.

Nor am I sure why it’s working.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I steal a quick glance around the room. “She should be so lucky.”

“She would probably do wonders for your bid for senator, though,” Mr. Rafferty tells Alistair, once again clapping him on the shoulder.

For a split second, Alistair winces. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but his mouth seizes up and his shoulders stiffen enough that I notice. Taking a sip of his drink, his stature returns to normal, though he refuses to meet my gaze.

“I’m more interested in how you’ll help my campaign,” Alistair tells the man, raising an eyebrow. “Have your assistant call my office Monday morning, and we’ll set something up.”

My body hums, aware that meetings with my brother usually go one of two ways. The fact that he’s bringing it up with me around tells me everything I need to know about its nature.

Rafferty hesitates, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “About that… I’m not sure aligning myself with your cause is in my best interest currently, as I’m seeking to expand ventures into the political sector myself.”

Alistair frowns, and I let go of the unease his grimace caused, pushing it down and welcoming what I know comes next. Rocking back on my heels, I smother a grin, trying not to let the excitement bleed through.

If I can’t exact my revenge on the Primroses tonight, at least I get something out of attending.

“We had a deal, Lionel.”

A hand goes to the back of his neck, and Mr. Rafferty has the gall to look sheepish. “I understand that, Alistair, but—”

“Your Honor,” my brother corrects.

“What?”

“Your Honor,” Alistair repeats. “I’m your mayor, Mr. Rafferty, and you can address me as such. Just like you can keep your end of the deal we struck moments before my brother’s presence made you antsy.”

My grin breaks through, and I take a step closer. “Do I make you nervous, Mr. Rafferty?”

“O-of course not.”

“You sound nervous.”

Even though we’re surrounded by party people, Aplana Island’s elite, no one else seems to notice me. I can’t tell if I like the lack of recognition or not, but when fear sparks in the other man’s dark gaze, contentment bursts through my insides like a raging rapid.

Reaching out, I clamp my hand around his shoulder the way he keeps doing to Alistair, and I squeeze until the man shifts, biting his lip as he tries to get away.

“And you should be. If you fail to show up Monday, I shall find you. Deliver you personally.”

The man gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath layers of excess skin, but finally nods.

I pat his cheek harder than necessary, reveling in his grimace. “Good boy.”

We leave after that, getting into my brother’s town car before anyone happens to notice the unwanted guest in their midst. As we exit the curved drive’s porte cochere, I glance out the rear window and scan the Cape Cod–esque home front one last time.

Its pale-blue siding and gray rooftops don’t show as well this time of day, but their image lingers with me regardless.

A window on the second story catches my eye, and I look up just as a silhouette appears behind the curtain, barely visible in the pale moonlight.

I’ve spent years memorizing the layout of the house, so I know the owner of the window immediately. Even if I didn’t, though, I think I’d recognize her figure anywhere.

It’s the kind that burns itself into your memory, like an invisible brand you can never dig up.

“Where’d you disappear to tonight?” Alistair asks, not looking up while he types something on his phone. “I noticed Tom Primrose was alive and well when we left.”

“For now,” I say, drinking my fill of the silhouette one last time before our driver leaves through the wrought iron gate, obscuring my view. “Didn’t feel like explaining why I killed the host to Aplana’s best and brightest.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t offer more. Besides, he’ll find out where I ventured off to when they find Richard Stiles’s body hanging from the rafters in the Primrose’s five-car garage in the morning.





Growing up, my father cultivated a myriad of aspirations.

Keeping a wife wasn’t one of them, so Alistair’s mum raised him on her own, and mine vanished not long after we moved to the States.

Criminal activity, though, he excelled in, using his pub as a front for whatever organizations he was involved with. From political cover-ups to actual organized crime, The Flaming Chariot catered to many sleazy operatives over the years, and the general public steered clear of it.