Page 42 of Nineteen Eighty

Augustus laughed. “All this time, and you were playing matchmaker for me.”

“Not until you found your way to my dinner table, young man.” Irish Colleen grinned. “Took you long enough. I was afraid some other brooding man approaching his thirties might come along and sweep ol’ Barbie off her feet!”

His mother was making a joke, and she so seldom did it that it took Augustus a moment to catch up. “You’re serious, though, about this Barbara?”

“I am. And, Augustus, I know you don’t want more children.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Barbara can’t have children,” Irish Colleen said with a soft sigh. “She found this out just before her husband passed. A double hit to her heart, poor dear. But… that also narrowed her choices in husbands, as you can imagine.”

“Except for men who don’t want more children.”

“Yes, except men like that. Like you.” She set her napkin over her food. “Would you like to meet her? Maybe have dinner, see if the two of you hit it off?”

“I don’t need for us to hit it off.”

“Augustus.” Irish Colleen smiled patiently. “You want a wife, not a robot. You want a woman who will spark life and happiness with Ana. You want a roommate you can live with, with habits that align with your own. Practicality still comes with guidelines, you know.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll talk to Annie straight away.”

“This is weird, right? Feels more like a business transaction.”

Irish Colleen laughed. “All my children are weird. I learn to embrace it, and all is well.” She patted his knee. “No, Augustus. This isn’t weird. It feels right, doesn’t it? You’ll have dinner with Miss Chandler, introduce her to Ana, discuss your mutual expectations, and, God willing, something useful to you both springs forth.”

Charles glanced at the blood-stained address scribbled on a piece of paper sitting on the seat beside him. Before he’d showed up there, he was still delightfully dizzy from his day in Abbeville with the mysterious dominatrix whose husband ran his rice mill. But he had no choice but to break the spell. He couldn’t delay this any longer.

Tears ran down his face, unchecked. He swiped crudely at them, straining to see, blinded by both his own agony and the rain outside.

This was the last time. It had to be. They were all older now, each settled into the lives they’d chosen—except Maureen. She hadn’t chosen this life, Charles had chosen it for her. And now, when she was choosing to invest in her unusual marriage and her family, he wanted to make that easier. He’d closed a door that still remained cracked, the light beckoning.

I did as she asked! I’ve stayed away! Soren pleaded, as Charles towered over him, knife at his throat. Please! I don’t wanna die, Charles!

No, this was the last time. The last goddamn time.

This time when he wiped at his eyes, he was blinded by the blood he left behind.

Offing a LaViolette was a risk. This wasn’t some middle-aged school teacher from the Sixth Ward. The LaViolettes were one of the only other families in New Orleans with as much money and influence as the Deschanels, and there was little chance that they’d leave the matter of a murder of one of their own alone. But it was too late to ponder that bullshit now. Soren was dead, and Charles had done it, and there was only forward, no going back.

You went too far this time, Huck. Way too far.

Catherine’s voice.

She loved him. She let go, because she had to, but she loved this one. She didn’t love the other guy, but she loved this one, and she’ll know… she’ll know, and will never forgive you.

“Fuck you, Cat.”

You know what’s worse? You didn’t need to do it, did you? You didn’t even have to kill him. Like he said, he was minding his own business. Doing exactly as Maureen asked.

“Fuck you!” Charles pounded the steering wheel with his bruised fist. Soren had fought, and fought hard, but Charles couldn’t remember which bruises were from Angelique, and which were from his latest kill. Tomorrow would be even harder to distinguish them. “You don’t know a fucking thing.”

You’re sick, Huck. You need help. I can understand why you killed the man who hurt Maureen when she was a girl, but this? He was a good man. He loved your sister. And Ekatherina? An innocent girl, sick from childbed?

“I’ll always do what’s best for my family. I don’t need the understanding from some fucking ghost of the woman too scared to be with me.” A horn sounded as he swerved into oncoming traffic.

No, then why is it me you’re hearing these words from?

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