Page 104 of The Thief
"She died in Dublin. Shot down in the street like a dog while she was pregnant with our baby. Your people killed her, Alastríona. Your family took everything that mattered to me and left me with nothing but rage."
I find my voice finally. "You're wrong."
His eyebrows rise. "Am I?"
"She lied to so many people. She hurt them. And you know what? She got exactly what she deserved."
The words are cruel, calculated to hurt. But they have the desired effect. Trace's composed mask slips, revealing the madness underneath.
"Shut your mouth."
"She was leaving you. She saw how fucked up you were. Poor little Trace abandoned by his lying whore of a wife."
He's on his feet now, face flushed with rage. Good. Angry people make mistakes.
"I said shut your mouth!"
"Make me."
He backhands me hard enough to snap my head to the side. The taste of blood fills my mouth, but I'm smiling when I look back at him.
"Feel better? Or are you still the pathetic little boy whose wife chose to leave you?"
This time he uses his fist. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, and I see stars for a moment. But I'm still smiling when my vision clears.
"You know what I think?" I say, spitting blood at his feet. "I think you killed her yourself. I think when you found out she was leaving you, you couldn't handle the rejection. So you put a bullet in her chest and have been blaming everyone else ever since. The truth is, everyone's known it's been you the entire time. You're sick and twisted, Trace. You've got a couple of screws loose, huh?"
The silence stretches for a long moment. Trace is staring at me with something like respect mixed with hatred.
"Very good," he says finally. "You're smarter than I expected."
My blood runs cold. "Why did you kill her?"
"Do you really think I would let her leave me for that Irish trash? Let her take my child and run off to play happy families with a common thief?"
"She was your wife."
"She was my property. Mine to love, mine to protect, mine to punish when she stepped out of line. And when she decided she belonged to someone else..." He shrugs, like murder is just another business decision. "I couldn't let that stand. Couldn't let her make a fool of me. So I followed her to Dublin, put a bullet in her chest, and made sure your boyfriend was the last thing she saw before she died."
The casual way he talks about it, like he's describing what he had for breakfast, makes me sick. But there's something else there too, something that doesn't quite add up.
"If you killed her in Dublin, why are you making out like you didn't?"
"Because blaming your family gave me an excuse to do what I've always wanted to do: Destroy Henry Gallagher and everything he's built. Take over his territory, his operations, his family."
"You used your wife's death as an excuse to start a war."
"I used her betrayal as justification for necessary business expansion. Besides, an eye for an eye. Those fucking Irish cunts killed my dad."
Christ, he really is a monster.
"The best part," he continues, settling back into his chair, "is that your precious Freddie still thinks he was in love with her, still carries guilt over her death, still blames himself for not protecting her."
"He did love her."
"Did he? Or did he love the lie she showed him? Because the woman he knew, the woman he thought she was, she never existed. Ava was mine from the moment I met her. Every smile she gave him, every tender moment—it was all a performance."
I don't believe him. I can't believe him. Freddie's not stupid enough to fall for a complete lie.
