Page 189 of Ruin My Life
Calculated. Methodical. A recreation of the worst night of my life—designed not to weaken my network, but to breakme.
The Songbirds don’t usually operate like this. They're blunt instruments. Bloodthirsty. Loud. They kill people who cross them, sure—but not with this kind of psychological precision. Not unless they’re trying to make a point.
Usually, they'd go after someone I love. Rip them away just to make me bleed. But they can’t. I’ve buried those I couldn’t protect. And the ones I still love? I’ve kept them locked up tight—hidden in shadows and armed with more protection than most cartel bosses.
So this… this is the only weapon they have left.
Memory.
Pain.
The past.
“There’s more, unfortunately,” Lee says grimly. “They didn’t disclose who she was in the article, but I did some digging. Managed to get my hands on the autopsy report from the coroner’s office.”
He pauses like he doesn’t even want to finish the thought.
“It’s Jennifer Pietro.”
My blood turns to ice.
Jennifer.
She was Oswald’s wife.
We killed him just before Brie showed up. I’d gotten her set up with her sister in Kensington.
Jennifer shouldn’t have been anywhere near my part of town. She was supposed to be safe. Far away from the Songbirds. Far away fromallof this.
“Who’s that?” Brie asks.
I glance at her, still trying to process it myself. “She came to The Speakeasy a couple weeks ago. Wanted help getting out. Her husband—Oswald—was a sadistic piece of shit. Carved her up for fun on a good day and did far worse on the bad ones.” My jaw clenches. “We took care of him. And we got her out. She was supposed to besafe.”
Brie deflates in my arms like a balloon losing air. Her gaze drops to the laptop, but she’s notseeingit.
I can feel the way she folds inward. Not physically, but mentally. Retreating into guilt like it’s the only shelter she deserves.
“It’s not your fault,” I say quietly.
She scoffs—the sound bitter and hollow.
“I don’t see how itisn’t. I killed Alexander and put a giant fucking target on the back of anyone remotely associated with you and your circle.” She shudders, eyes shut tight. “I practically killed her myself.”
“Brie—”
“I don’t think this is about Xander at all,” Lee cuts in quickly.
We both snap our attention to the phone, like he’s physically in the room with us.
“Why not?” I ask.
Lee exhales hard. “Because Jennifer isn’t the first. She’s just the first to get noticed.”
My stomach sinks like a stone slipping into a still, dark lake—no splash, no sound, just that eerie sense of vanishing beneath the surface, where something terrible waits below.
“What do you mean?” Brie asks, her voice low.
Lee hesitates. “While I was digging for the autopsy, I saw another name that felt… familiar. Anya Taylor.”
