Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,69

The self-recrimination.

I’m sorry, Lily. Goddammit, I’m so sorry.

For all the issues she was dealing with, and the ways she kept me locked out of them, Lily didn’t deserve to have her secrets exposed between commercials for dog food and fabric softener, with a tofu chef demo station waiting in the wings.

We didn’t deserve it. Her or me—or our baby.

He’d almost be four by now. A toddler with Transformers and Legos.

Or she. A little princess with star wands…and Legos.

I chuff at my stupid joke.

Then pinch two fingers to my eyes, gritting back the hot sting behind them.

“Fuck.” It grates out, as rusty and rough in my throat as the gears lowering us to the basement. “Fuck.” Then louder than the collision of the brakes when we arrive, finished by my swing of a punch to the iron wall.

Ella’s quiet sob fills the ensuing silence. “Cassian…”

“Not now, Ella.”

The door slides open. Scott is waiting with the Jag, even his face set in stoic lines. Well, hell. I’ve never seen the kid ditch his smile, even after Hurricane Sandy took out his parents’ place.

Christ on ice. Was every goddamn person in the country watching People and Places this morning?

Apparently, yes.

I am the subject of nobody’s pity.

Yeah. Fucking great life mantra—

Except for the day I’m the subject of everyone’s pity.

“Cassian?”

I flinch from Ella’s voice. Force myself free from her touch. Like either’s going to stop the nightmare from reversing itself—all the disgusting details of Lily’s death from being bled all over the tabloid media for the next week.

I need to move. Have to move. Be free to attack this clearly.

Be free of needing Ella so near.

Of being weakened by it.

My steps from the lift pound through the garage, punching hard on the cement walls. Cement. Much better than stained glass.

One by one, the ravens freeze then die.

Thank fuck.

By the time I get to Doyle, I’m ready to hand them to him, laid out on the steel platter of my resolve.

“I need to know who’s gotten access to Lily’s files at both rehab facilities and the coroner’s office. Do it quickly and quietly. They’ll know we’re coming, but are banking on the legal avenues taking a little time.”

Doyle jogs a quick nod. “Already on it.”

I snort. “Of course you are.”

“Just call me Kato. Or Stud. Doesn’t matter.”

“All right, Stud. Let’s talk about alerting Holy Oak cemetery that the media may be swarming Lily’s grave—”

“Done.”

“And making sure Nash Quinn is contacted—”

“Call’s been placed. He’s been in a meeting but I told his people he needs to call you as soon as he’s out.”

“And coordinating extra security at the manor?”

“Next on my list.”

I clap his shoulder. I know it’s the only thanks he ever wants besides his paycheck, but can’t help my next comment from drawling out.

“At this rate, you’re going to get a new truck whether you like it or not.”

“May take you up on that, if you keep insisting on borrowing it, chief.”

Like the good Kato he is, the keys are out of his pocket and in my hand before the words are done. It’s not a move I try to hide, despite knowing the next trigger it’ll pull—shooting out a bullet who rocks a cobalt dress and come-fuck-me pumps like no Earthly creature has a right to.

Oh, yeah. And rage. She’s rocking just a bit of that too.

“You are taking the truck again?

“Ella—”

“By yourself…again?”

Maybe more than just “a bit.”

I pocket the keys. Brace both her shoulders in order to guide her a few feet away from Doyle and Scott. She fumes through every step, despite how I show her my deep breath in. Back out.

My devil in a blue dress shuns the nonverbal cues. Matches my determined stance by parking her own feet at shoulder width, fists jammed at her hips.

“Okay,” I begin carefully. “Listen—”

“Listen?” She bursts with a bitter laugh. “Are we really right back here, Cassian? At the place where I get to scream that all I want to do is listen? To at least help?”

“I know—”

“Do you? Or do I need to remind you about the last time we did this, in Bryant Park—and how the evening ended with you in surgery at New York Presbyterian?”

“I know, Ella.”

“Apparently, you do not—because here you are, walling me off again. Walling yourself off, after that salpu dragged you through some of the most horrific memories of your past.”

“Which she’s going to pay for.” I let my gritted teeth and rigid gaze fill in what my tight tone doesn’t. “Which is why I have