Page 100 of Wicked Little Lies

The room’s almost soulless, apart from the art. Jac’s got a shit ton of modern, cutting-edge pieces.

Most would look at Jac and just think the art was put here by his interior decorator. The furniture and color schematics aren’t particularly Jac. But the art is. Miller chose it.

It brings the room to life, offers a glimpse into him.

Like Jac, the paintings are bombastic, in your face and surface level sybaritic. But, much as I hate to admit it, the art’s also got layers, substance beneath that surface level.

I know Jac. I don’t have to like him to know he’s got layers when he lets them out.

With a sigh, I go to the wet bar and pour a couple of drinks. I drink half of mine and top it up. The whiskey’s Irish and good.

“No, help your fucking self,” Jac says behind me.

“I poured you a drink.”

I turn. The ink’s covered, and his green eyes glint with the hate he carries like it’s his security blanket, or his fuel bank. His is bright and sparks. Mine’s old and worn and cold.

But hate is hate, I guess.

Jac’s meeting me on the same playing ground. He’s donned a suit, one of his peacock ones. The colors are greens and dark forest browns in a madras check which is borderline too much. But the rich cocoa silk shirt and the chartreuse bird’s eye print tie somehow pulls it together and makes it work.

Fucking Jac.

He rubs a ringed hand over his face, and I note the cufflinks. Black diamonds on white gold.

“Family heirlooms,” he mutters. “Who the fuck knows from where. They were left to me by my mother. Like she left Lili the Heart of Dark Desires.”

“And my mother left me that same necklace in her will. Along with the actual piece.” I look at him, lift my glass, and take a swallow. “If Lili had lived, she’d have it. I’d have given it to her when we married.”

His eyes narrow and glitter. “Then hand it over.”

“That’s not how it works. I’ve no intentions of marrying you, Jac.”

“Oh. Look.” He’s utterly deadpan. “You’ve crushed my fucking dreams.”

“Drop the sarcasm.”

“Give me the necklace.”

I smile nastily. “Can’t, Cat stole it.”

We have a lot to talk about, but I’m curious because I’m thinking of the ring. Of Cat. Of airing the fucking room. “Are you behind this, Jac?”

The room vibrates with deadly anger, and even before he speaks, I’ve got my answer. “You mean, did I fucking kidnap MG? Drug her?”

“Yes.”

“I should kill you right fucking now,” he snarls.

He means it, but it doesn’t bother me. Because he won’t. Of course he didn’t.

“Did you?” Jac shakes his head, stomps over, and downs the drink I poured him. Snatching up the bottle, he stalks to the other side of the room before adjusting a perfectly aligned painting so it’s askew, and then stalks back. “Hendrick?”

I top up my glass calmly. “What, Jac?”

“Did you kidnap her, set all this up? Because I sure as fuck didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t kidnap her,” I say and lean against the mantle. “I could kill you, but if I wanted you dead, I would have gone and done that after killing your damned fucking rapist father.”

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