Page 79 of Dolls & Daggers
Technically, the saying means you’re supposed tothinkabout extracting revenge for it to be carried out in the best way. Plan. Prepare.
Not hop on a plane the second your boyfriend is out of town to murder his disgusting pedo mother.
A knot tightens in my gut as I recall everything Wren confided in me. He’s still harboring so much animosity. Is it fair to take away his opportunity for closure? Should I have discussed this with him first?
I took my revenge when I was ready. But I needed the chaos, the violence—an outlet for all my pent-up rage.
I love my sweet songbird, but whatheneeds is four walls and someone licensed to help him start his healing journey.
Is that really your call to make, Turtle Dove?
I have a love-hate relationship with the fact that I can hear him at any given moment, as though he were really right beside me. It’s become constant when he’s not near. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times it drowns out my intrusive thoughts, and I need those to carry out my justice-seeking duties.
At a red light, I check my phone. Wren hasn’t replied since I messaged him the second I got off the plane.It’s late afternoon there, and all he’s sent today is a simpleI love you.
That’s… not like him.
If necessary, I’ll fly all night, even if it takes four layovers, to make it back to New York before he gets home in the morning.
The town Wren grew up in isn’t the typical place you think of when you hear California. The roads are dusty, cracked, and riddled with potholes. The houses are sturdy but rundown, desperate for a good power wash. I do like that they’re not stacked on top of each other, though.
It took some digging, but I found a floor plan for the home Wren’s mother, Robyn, rents. There’s a basement below ground, and the house sits on a corner lot, meaning there’s extra space on both sides.
No one will hear her scream.
See? I did plan a little.
And it seems my luck just keeps rolling in.
My rental creeps toward the gaudy red garage with two vehicles parked outside. I plan to drive by a few times, then stop and ask for directions like I’m lost. But half a block away, one of the cars pulls out. I’m too far away to see the driver, but I pick up speed, trailing the light blue Camry as it heads toward the main street.
A little more time to study my target won’t hurt. My research didn’t indicate Robyn is seeing anyone.
You should’ve grabbed the license plate on the second car.
I can worry about that later, though. I follow the Camry to the local grocer, parking a few spots down on the opposite side of the row. I have to choose a place with a few empty spaces so I can back in. As a New Yorker, backing up and parallel parking are not my strong suits, so I need a spot with some breathing room.
I watch as Wren’s mother steps out. Seeing her in person is surreal, after scouring the internet for the handful of photos that exist. Robyn Campbell is beautiful, though I loathe to admit it. I understand why Wren thinks we look alike—same wheaty blonde hair, similar blue eyes.
Though in height, I’m the equivalent of Bilbo Baggins, and she’s Gandalf.
Don’t do Gandalf dirty like that, Dove.
It must be where Wren gets his size from unless his good-for-nothing father is also as tall as a giraffe.
I stay a few steps behind as she grabs a cart and sets her beige crossbody in the baby seat. Robyn looks like every other middle-aged woman. Shopping for groceries, smiling at everyone who passes, and stopping to chat with people who greet her by name.
An upstanding citizen, fooling everyone with hercharm and good looks. No one would ever guess a monster lurks beneath her painted face.
Wren’s initial reaction to me makes so much more sense now. He knew a monster when he saw one.
To stay inconspicuous, I steer my cart down an aisle, nerves fraying each second Robyn is out of sight. A relieved breath exits my lungs as I round the corner to see she’s now coming down the same aisle the opposite way.
I grab a random can of pasta sauce and throw it in my cart along with—I check the bright orange box—chickpea pasta.
Huh. Sounds gross.
Robyn pays no attention to me as I sneak up beside her humming a tune I don’t recognize, a dreamy look in her eyes as she browses canned tomatoes. Her purse sits open, her phone peeking out—easy pickings for any pickpocket worth their salt. I slow my cart beside hers.
