“He taught you to what? Inspect his money?” His harsh laugh proves he doesn’t know whether I’m lying or not. Not that it matters. Logic means less to him with every passing second. He craves the rage and chases it with flared nostrils and a trembling fist. But curiosity wins out. “You really expect me to believe that?”
I don’t. But again, it doesn’t matter. “He only ever talks to me about money,” I explain, even though saving my life is futile. I’m tired. Resisting him is too damn hard. Too fucking bloody. I want it to end. “He made a bad deal once. His father nearly killed him. So he taught me to…” The words trail off, broken and worthless. I doubt he even heard me.
He wants to fight. He wants to kill again. He wants to justify whatever hatred has eaten him alive. He can’t have that narrative ruined, not even for his own benefit.
But silly me. I nearly forgot the one constant of the world that has yet to prove me wrong:money. A man values nothing more.
“You want to make yourself useful?” he wonders in a hollow tone.
I sense his intention even before his shoulder tenses, but I’m too tired to move. He throws the briefcase at me. It bounces painfully off my hip and falls open, spilling its contents over the floor.
“Then count it. Every last fucking bill. If you’re off by so much as a cent, I’ll gut you and send you to your fuckinghusbandin pieces.”
He slams the door in his wake so hard that it jerks on its hinges. Loose bills flutter in the air, falling down softly to coat my body like snowfall. I’m tempted to ignore him. To let him kill me when he returns. Give up here and now.
I’m so tired…
But it would never end there.Nothingcomes between a man and his money.