Page 27 of Ruin My Life
Once Jennifer is dressed and safely in a cab, we stick around long enough for the cleanup crew to finish their work.
They’re good—verygood—and paid well enough not to ask questions.
I made the mistake once of inquiring where they disposed of the bodies. One of them casually mentioned a pig farm in New Jersey.
I haven’t asked any other questions since.
In just under an hour, Oswald’s wrapped in trash bags and loaded into the trunk of their car. Room 209 is scrubbed clean.
No blood. No body. No trace we were ever here.
By the time we slide back into the SUV, the night feels like it’s already behind us. Monroe takes the wheel. I claimshotgun. Connor stretches across the backseat, clapping each of us on the shoulder with that casual swagger only he could pull off.
“Job well done, boys,” he says. “Let’s grab Chinese on the way back. We earned it.”
“If we ate every time we finished a job,” Monroe mutters, “we’d each weigh three hundred pounds.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “Worth it.”
Knowing them, they’ll probably argue the whole drive back to The Speakeasy if I don’t butt in.
But I don’t engage. Not this time.
Because my phone buzzes in my pocket.
And when I see the name on the screen, the calm I’ve felt since I put a bullet in Oswald disappears.
Connor and Monroe fall silent the second I answer.
“O’Doyle,” I greet flatly. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”
Matthias O’Doyle’s voice is as smooth as it is venomous.
“You tell me, Damon. I thought we had an understanding—my guys keep out of Kings, and you don’t fuck with them.”
“We do. And?”
“Then why are my Songbirds showing up dead inQueens?”
I still.
I haven’t killed any Songbirds lately, certainly not outside Kings. The deal between Matthias and me has held firm for over the last two years.
My grip on the phone tightens, but I keep my voice level. “I’m not involved. You know me—I’d sign the body.”
“Right,” he scoffs. “So, either you’re lying or someone’s doing your dirty work for you. Either way, I’m not going to sit back and watch you chip away at my flock. I find out it’s you? I retaliate. Don’t think I won’t.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I lower the phone slowly, jaw clenched.
“What the hell was that?” Connor asks, shifting forward in his seat.
“Someone’s been killing Songbirds in Queens,” I say. “O’Doyle thinks it’s me.”
For a moment, the SUV is dead quiet. Even Connor doesn’t have a joke locked and loaded.
And I can’t exactly blame O’Doyle. I would be my own first suspect too.
