Page 144 of The Beautiful Dead

There was no running.

No escape.

Remi smiled and moved like lightning. His fist connected with her temple, knocking her out cold. She collapsed in a heap in the tub before the sound of the impact had even died.

With swift efficiency, we had her bound and in the trunk of the Escalade I’d picked up. We were heading to an abandoned papermill to send Brielle to her death.

“Wake up, bitch.”

The words left my mouth in a low growl as I upended the bucket of ice-cold water over her head. Brielle jolted violently, choking, gasping—eyes snapping open and darting around like a trapped animal. The color drained from her face the moment she took in her surroundings.

“P-please…” she whimpered, her swollen, bloodshot gaze locking onto Remi. A desperate, pleading whisper of his name— “R-Remi.”

Her body shook, limbs twitching as she tried to lift a trembling hand—only then realizing she was bound, wrists and ankles strapped to the chair sitting, in a growing pool of water.

“Fuck you,” Remi spat, his lip curling in disgust. “After what you did to Mom, you think I’d help you?”

“I-I never did anything…” she croaked, tears and snot mixing as they ran down her face.

Remi tilted his head, something sharp and dark twisting in his expression. He liked it when they lied. He liked the way they clung to denial as if it could save them.

“You never did anything?”

He circled her, measured, deliberate—his boots splashing through the filthy water, the steady rhythm of his steps echoing through the abandoned papermill. The birds nesting in the rafters startled and fluttered at the sound. In the dim light, his blade spun between his fingers, flashing silver as he weighed his options. How best to make her suffer. How best to make it last.

She didn’t deserve a quick death.

Brielle let out a strangled sob, her whole body quivering as she fought for breath. The chair wobbled under her, unsteady on the wet concrete.

In a blink, Remi was behind her.

One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back at a vicious angle, exposing the trembling column of her throat. The other pressed his blade to her skin, just enough to let her feel the cold kiss of steel.

When he spoke, his voice slithered down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“I think you wanted me and Mom here because you saw dollar signs.”

Not a question. A fact.

Her head jerked side to side, flinging spit and tears in wide arcs. “No. No, I-I?—”

Remi backhanded her so hard her head snapped sideways, blood staining her teeth. The imprint of his hand bloomed in scarlet against her sickly pale cheek. His breathing quickened, his shoulders rising and falling with barely contained rage.

“You knew about my trust fund, Brielle.”

She was unraveling, hyperventilating, mumbling nonsense, like a priest reciting a prayer before the slaughter.

Remi chuckled—a low, hollow sound—and crouched in front of her, ice-blue eyes alight with something near euphoric. “You knew about it. I saw the paperwork.”

Her whimpering grew more frantic. “No. No, I-I?—”

“You were the co-signer,” he murmured, tilting his head as if marveling at her audacity. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Fresh tears spilled down her face as if she thought she could weep her sins away. But only God could grant that mercy—and she wasn’t in the company of angels.

“I-It was… it was B-Brock’s idea,” she rasped, eyes flicking between us.

Remi’s face twisted in disgust. A lie. A pathetic, grasping lie.

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