Page 15 of Bullet

I’m back at the house by three. I leave the box in the trunk of my car and head in through the back door. The front one opens right up into the living room, which is awkward, and with the house being so small, we usually only use the back door.

The mouthwatering aroma of beef in rich sauce fills my nose.

I find a hastily scrawled note on a paper in the shape of a dead fish on the counter. Willa buys the strangest things. If it’s weird, she’ll probably like it. I pick it up and squint to decipher her nearly illegible handwriting.

Sorry. You were right about everything. Thank you, and I love you. I figured you’d be back around nine. I’ll be home byten or a little after. I switched shifts to do the whole college thing this morning. I set this to low, so it should be done right around the time we’re ready to eat.

P.S. It’s red wine broth, but I cheated and bought the tetra container. Just so you’re not disappointed.

Willa

Pain threads its way through me like an invasive species of plant, sending down roots that shouldn’t be there, choking the breath out of my lungs.

I fold over right there in the kitchen, clutching the note to my chest. The house is so quiet and so empty. I’m glad Willa isn’t here right now, because if she was, there’s no way I could fall apart. The hot tears on my cheeks are a luxury I wouldn’t allow myself if she was watching.

It’s not that I’m ashamed to tell her I got fired. I know I wasn’t in the wrong. This wasn’t about me at all—I just got caught in the crosshairs and became collateral damage.

It’s more that I’m the one Willa comes to when there’s something wrong. I’m the fixer. The listener. The one who gives sage advice. I’m stoic and mature. I don’t fall apart because Ican’t. If I’ve ever allowed myself to doubt or cry or ache in the past, I’ve done it where my little sister can’t see it.

That’s what mothers do, and even though I’m just Willa’s big sister, I’ve been raising her and looking after her since she was born.

“Fuck.” I set the note down on the counter and lean over the sink, running cold water, cupping it in my hands, and splashing it on my burning face. It sends a chill through me, but it doesn’tbanish the anger at the dish of injustice that I was just forced to eat.

“Fuck!” My scream echoes through the kitchen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I grab the thing nearest to me, which happens to be a roll of paper towels, and launch it across the room. It bounces off the wall and falls unceremoniously to the floor, unravelling silently.

It’s so unsatisfying that I kick my three-hundred-dollar pump off my foot, launching it across the kitchen, and kick the sink cupboard, just hard enough to sting and make a good rattle.

“Fuck!” I ball my hands into fists and scream. Not ahalfhearted scream either, but a true scream, straight from my belly and that black, boiling pit of hopeless rage. I don’t stop until I’m out of breath.

The meltdown finished, my face heats all over again with embarrassment. I duck down and look out the small kitchen window, but as far as I can tell, no one heard. Most of my neighbors are other professionals and aren’t home at this time of day. I wait, but I don’t hear any sirens rounding the block. No one thought I was being murdered in here and made a call.

I pick up the paper towels, winding them back around the roll. It’s messy, but for once, I don’t give a shit. I plunk it down hard on the counter.

Just to do something with myself, I walk to the living room and stand at the small bay window. It overlooks the little scrap of grass I call a front yard. I keep it carefully manicured, with cheerful flowers in pots on the concrete stairs. It’s almost time for chrysanthemums.

The concrete sidewalk and the driveway are always swept and neat. There aren’t many trees on this block, and my neighbors have them all. I try to tell myself I don’t mind, just like I tried to tell myself that the six-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag that came with this small two-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot house was worth it because of its proximity to downtown.

Something wild and unhinged rattles through me. I throw back my head and laugh, my voice so raspy from the screaming and cursing, that it doesn’t even sound like mine.

I’ve been working for this since I was eighteen. Twelve fucking years. I worked my ass off so that I could get scholarships to offset some of the costs. I went to school, worked, and looked after Willa. I studied so damn hard to pass the bar exam. I gave that firm probably somewhere around thirty thousand hours of my life.

For what?

And why the fuck do I see a set of dancing brown eyes when I close mine? Why do I hear that rich, deep voice telling me that adhering to the rules is a waste of time. That morally gray is so much more fun, and even when it’s not, at least it comes with a small semblance of freedom.

He didn’t even say that.

It’s not even taunting in my head. It’s just nice and deep, with that slight burr on the end, although some very preliminary research revealed that his mom was born in Scotland, so that might explain his slight accent.

In my head, well… he shouldn’t even be in my head.

I find myself retrieving my purse from the kitchen and rummaging around for my phone. Maybe I sensed this was coming down the line, because I took photos of Hamish’s retainer, including his name and cell number.

I’m going to have to call him and tell him not to bother sending payment. It won’t be needed now. It’s best just to get it over and done with. The firm can handle all my other clients. They’ll just reassign someone to them and assure them that, in the end, it will make no difference at all.

It’ll be as easy as that to replace me.

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