Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(25)

He smiled. “Guess so.”

I went to the refrigerator. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? Big day tomorrow and all that?”

“Probably,” he said.

I got out my carton of kung pao chicken and brought it to the table. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“I guess so,” he said. “I, uh, keep thinking about Marcel.”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess that’s not a fun thing to think about.” Wow, so that was the understatement of the year. I cringed.

Griffin didn’t seem phased by what I’d said. He looked down at his chest, at the crudely inked tattoo there. “He gave me this, you know. This is his mark.”

Whenever Griffin talked about this, I felt like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Thinking about it was too much for me. How had he lived through it? “That was him? He did that?”

He nodded. He used his fork to stir what was left of his Chinese food. “He was the worst. He had this... I don’t know, almost an empire or something in that jail. This collection of men that did whatever he wanted. He was like the godfather of the cellblock. Everyone owed him favors. And he called them in to get whatever he wanted. And the kind of favors he did for people...” He curled his lip in disgust. “Well, I was a favor sometimes. I got loaned out.”

“Oh Griffin,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.” I wished there was something else I could say. My sympathies paled in comparison to the horrors he’d experienced.

He stared off into the distance. “I’m not sure if the pain was really the worst part. After a while, I guess it kind of hurt less, anyway. It was being treated like you weren’t... a person anymore. Like you were a thing.” He set down his fork. “I really hate thinking about it.”

I didn’t know what to say. Should I keep saying I was sorry? Did that matter? I reached for him.

But the minute my fingers brushed his, he jerked away from me. “Don’t, don’t.”

“I—”

“I just don’t want to be touched.” A long pause, and then he turned to me. “You’re the only person who knows, you know? I trusted you enough to tell you this, and now we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m still here,” I said. “You can talk to me. I’ll always be here for you.”

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” His gaze held mine.

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. He was right. It wasn’t the same.

“What if...” He took a shaky breath. “What if I fall apart when I see him? What if I can’t handle it?”

“You won’t. You’re strong. You’re going there to kill him. You have the twins as backup.”

“You can’t know that.”

I couldn’t. I bit my lip. “Maybe not. But I believe it. I believe in you.”

“Oh, doll. Sometimes...” He turned back to his Chinese food.

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes I wish that things weren’t...” He studied the inside of his carton. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I said, and I put my hand on his.

He pulled away from me, his eyes flashing. “I told you not to touch me, didn’t I?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

But he was scooting the chair out, getting up from the table. He tossed the carton of Chinese in the trash and left the kitchen. Leaving me there alone.

*

They left when it was still dark outside. I sat on the steps as they went through their gear at the front door.

“You’ve got my number in case anything happens, right, doll?” said Griffin, handing a long rifle to Sloane.

“Yeah,” I said.

Sloane slung the rifle over her shoulder. “And you’ve got a gun in your room, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And bullets?” asked Griffin.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, they’re not loaded into the gun, because I know that’s not safe, but they’re here.”

“She’s going to be fine,” said Silas, opening the door. “We got to get moving.”

And then they were gone.

It was early, and I probably could have gone back to sleep, but I was too antsy, so I didn’t. Instead, I watched movies on cable. I was nervous, and I wished they’d come home.

I wanted it over.

On the other hand, I knew that once Marcel was dead, there would be no reason for me to be close to Griffin. That made me sad.

The hours ticked by.

When I got hungry, I ordered in food. There was an Italian place that delivered more than pizza, and I was in the mood for some pasta.

Fifteen minutes after I called, the doorbell rang.

I opened it.

It was the delivery guy. But he wasn’t alone. There was a man behind him—tall, greasy hair, a wispy beard and mustache. He had a knife to the delivery guy’s throat. “Little pig, little pig, let us in.” He giggled.





Chapter Six


I swallowed, taking a step back from the door.

Greasy Hair forced the delivery guy inside. Then he slit his throat carelessly.

The delivery guy slumped to the floor, along with my container of lasagna, which burst open when it hit the ground. The rug was going to be really stained.