Page 27 of Property of Chaos

“We don’t need to give the fucking critics ammunition,” I snap, reiterating what I said last week too. “They look into why we’re using our strong arm, and they’ll see what the other one’s hiding. It’s about keeping their eyes busy with the magic trick while you steal their wallet,” I say. “If you stop making them giddy with glee, they’ll soon search elsewhere for entertainment.”

“You’ve lost me,” Highway grumbles.

“The fucking property shift is the magic trick,” I exclaim, tossing my hands. “They’ll be so fucking happy we’ve caved to pressure and moved out of sight that they’ll soon forget why they don’t like us or who we fucking are. Out of sight, out of mind. We’ve just gotta lay low long enough to be yesterday’s news, and then we can put stage two into motion.”

“Scaling up operations,” Highway mutters, brow stern.

“Scaling up,” I echo. “Fallen Aces are deliberating down south, and they’re also offering to move the Reapers and the Blood Eagles over to our supply. We’re doing what we should have done decades ago.”

“Pooled resources and worked together,” Crow says, his approval of the idea clear.

“Exactly.” I sigh. “Makes a change from killing each other, don’t you think?”

ELEVEN

VANESSA

I setthe pen down in the middle of my journal and fold it closed, placing the hardcover book on the bed beside me. The night is cooler than yesterday, allowing me the small comfort of a thick blanket pooled at my legs. I tug the cover over my lap, studying the haunting outline of the juvenile maple trees in the front yard.

I’ve never been able to sleep with my door closed. My blinds fully shut. So many texts describe people who’ve experienced trauma as needing that comfort—that barrier between them and their demons. But for me, it’s always been the opposite.

Every shut door provides an opportunity forhimto sneak up on me. Every closed blind shields the depravities inside from the world outside. Every closet is a giant box of secrets. Every sheet over my head is a cloak for the approaching danger.

I’d rather see my fate coming.

“Murph?” That fucking cat has abandoned me every night for a straight week. Perhaps he’s finally changed his mind, given the cooler weather. “What are you doing, buddy?” Or maybe he can sense how fucking wired I am, too.

Nothing. No response.

“Fuck’s sake.” I toss the covers aside and set my feet on the cold floor.

If the little asshole doesn’t come to me, then I’ll track him down and prove to myself that’s all I heard; his goddamn claws clicking across the floor.

“Where are you, you fluffy little menace?” Arms folded across my chest, I step into the dark hallway and peek at the visible space inside the spare room. “I can lock you out for good, you know? Don’t test the limits of my charity, asshole.” I veer left and head for the living room—the source of the noise.

The clock ticks an even tempo, faint moonlight struggling to illuminate the space through the shaded windows.

Everything seems as it should. The shapes twist and morph in the dark, my mind playing tricks on me. But I reassure myself by repeating my routine.

I itemize everything in the room from right to left.

“Bookshelf. Bookshelf. Chair. Table. Chair…” I catalog everything I own, reassuring the nervous parts of my mind that every dark lump belongs where it is. That nothing is amiss. “… tall lamp.” I finish with a sigh, closing my eyes briefly while I pull in a deep breath.Everything is okay. You are here. You are safe.My skin still prickles, but at least I haven’t felt the urge to curl into a ball.Yet.

Progress.

Although the nausea persists every time I think about my aunt’s arrival.Fuck.

What the hell do I say to her? How do I broach the subject without sounding cold? Selfish?“Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in a fucking long time, but do you know if my mother is still alive? Or has your sociopathic brother killed her with stress?”

My mother disappeared from public view when she took onhislast name. It started small, with snide comments about her activity online and commentary about who she’d spoken to thatday. Over time, it worsened. I recall afternoons with her in the navy armchair closest to the kitchen, talking with the one friend she was allowed about howhiscontrol disturbed her, but she understood his concern given who he was.

Whathehad to lose. As though nothing about her life mattered.

As though she had nothing of her own worth keeping.

Those conversations stopped fucking fast once that sole friend showed her true colors, reporting everything back to her husband, who then toldhimwhat my mother had said.

She lost her phone. The home computer was taken away.

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