Bonnie reclined in her chair, a faint smile on her lips.
Every time I looked at the old bat, I got the feeling she was the meddler in all of this. She was the reason Cut was the way he was. She was the reason why Jasmine was disabled and Jethro and Kes were dead. I guessed she was also the reason why Jethro never mentioned his mother.
I’d been in their lives for months, yet no one had uttered a thing about Mrs. Cut Hawk.
Unless it was a miracle conception and Cut carved his children from his bones like some evil sorcerer, she had to have existed and stuck around long enough to give Cut four babies.
Where is she now?
Images of Jethro and Kes reuniting with their mother in heaven gave me equal measure of despair and comfort.
If she’s even dead.
She could be trapped in the house, on a floor I didn’t know, in a room hidden from view. She might be alive and not know that her husband killed two of her sons.
God, what a tragic—
The stranger coughed, stealing my attention. “Thank you, Bryan.” Meticulously, he aligned a wayward fountain pen beside his tan ledger before looking at his colleagues. “I’ll start, gentlemen.”
His grey eyes locked on me, gluing me into my chair. “You must be Ms. Weaver. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting up till now.”
My back bristled.
Any man who’d studied the law and permitted the Hawks to continue to get away with what they did wasn’t someone I wanted to speak with.
Daniel nudged me. “Say hello, Nila.”
I clamped my lips together.
“You don’t want to be rude.” He snickered. “These guys have met all the Weavers. Isn’t that right, Marshall?”
My heart stopped.
What does that mean?
Marshall nodded. “That is correct, Mr. Daniel. I, personally, am lucky enough to have met your mother, Ms. Weaver. She was a fine young woman who loved you very much.”
I thought the pain of Jethro’s death had broken me past any other emotional agony.
I was wrong.
The mention of my mother crippled me. A sob wrapped wet tentacles around my lungs.
Don’t cry. Do not cry.
I would never cry again. Not as long as these people lived.
I’ll slaughter you all!
Jasmine arched her neck condescendingly. “Instead of torturing an already tortured girl, let’s get on with it, shall we?” Her eyes gleamed. “Leave the emotional battery to me once the legalities are straightened out.”
Cut chuckled, eyeing his daughter with newfound awe. “Jasmine, I must say, I never knew you were so capable.”
Bonnie preened like some proud mother hen. “That’s because I told you to leave her to me.” White tendrils of hair escaped her chignon, wisping in the low-lit room. “She’s stronger than Jet, Kes, and Dan combined. And it’s all thanks to me.”
I wanted to vomit. Or slash her to pieces. Either would work.
How could someone of that age, who should be tender and kind, be so heartlessly cruel?
Jasmine merely nodded like a princess accepting a compliment and turned her attention back to the life-stealing, blood-sucking, soul-leaching lawyer. “You may continue, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall stretched his wrinkly face into a smile. “As you wish, Ms. Jasmine.” Waving at his partners, he said, “Ms. Weaver, before we begin, we must honour the common niceties. I am principal director of the firm Marshall, Backham, and Cole. We have provided legal counsel and been sole conservator of the Hawk family for generations. My father was proud to be of service and his father and his father before him. There is nothing about the Hawk legacy that we are not a part of.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
I stopped breathing.
A part of everything?
So outsiders were aware of what went on inside these walls? Lawyers knew what the Debt Inheritance entailed and yet they were okay with it?
My body throbbed with another flush of fury.
I didn’t just want to steal three lives but theirs, too. The corridors of Hawksridge Hall would flow with blood by the time I eradicated the amount of people in on this ancient serial killing spree. Their innards would drape the walls, and their bones would rot the foundations with their malicious ideals.
That’s all they are.
Rich, eloquent, intelligent murderers hiding behind false pretences of contracts and signatures.
Would they sign a new contract giving me the right to slash their throats and tear out their hearts in payment for atrocities committed?
It doesn’t matter.
I didn’t need their permission.
I focused on the table, on the swirls of wood grain, rather than his face. If I looked up, I wouldn’t have the strength to stay in my chair. “You’re saying you presided over my ancestors’ executions? That you helped bribe away the truth and protect these sick bastards?”
Cut shot to his feet. “Nila!”
I ignored him, my fingernails digging into my palms. “You’re saying you helped change the law and enabled one family to destroy another? You’re saying you had my ancestors killed?”
I slammed my chair back, my voice reaching a glass-shattering octave. “You’re saying that you can sit there, talk to me, tell me whatever bullshit you’re about to do, all the while knowing they mean to chop off my head, and you don’t have a problem with that?”
Jasmine snatched my wrist. “God’s sake, sit your arse down.”
“Let go of—” I cried out as Daniel grabbed my hair and shoved me forward. I lost my footing; my face smashed against the table. Instantly, blood spurted from my nose, pain resonating in my skull.
Sickness drenched my senses with agony.
“Drop her, Daniel!” Cut yelled.
Daniel’s fingers were suddenly torn from my hair, letting me slouch backward, landing in my chair. Jasmine fought off her brother, slapping him away. “Don’t fucking touch her. What did I say? I’m in charge. I’m the oldest.”
My eyes watered as more blood gushed from my nose. I didn’t think it was broken, but the room spun with an induced vertigo wave.
God, what was I thinking?
The plan was to remain cool and invisible, looking for the perfect chance.
Now I couldn’t think straight with pain.
“You’re not in fucking charge, Jaz. She’s mine.” Daniel pointed at Marshall. “Tell her. Amend it, so my sister can shut the fuck up about the rules.”
Marshall looked awkwardly at Cut. “Sir?”
Cut ran a hand over his face, slowly sitting back down. “No, the conversation we had yesterday still stands.” His lips turned up at the rapidly building stain from my nosebleed. Every red drip redecorated the table and the front of my cardigan. “Someone get her a damn napkin.”
Jasmine shuffled in her wheelchair, pulling out a white handkerchief. “Here.” Shoving it into my hand, her eyes flickered with compassion.
It only made me hate her more.
Scrunching up the material, I held it to my nose, getting sick joy from destroying the white perfection. The stuffiness made me breathless, and my eyes drifted to the corner where initials had been embroidered.
JKH
I dropped it.
Oh, my God.
My hand splayed open, tinged with crimson and sticky but unable to hide the two tattoos on my fingertips. JKH.
Jasmine kept her brother’s handkerchief.
Why? To rub salt in already hollowed wounds or to laugh over fooling him just like she’d fooled me.
I locked eyes with her, pouring all my rage into my stare. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done.” Glancing at Bonnie and Cut, I added, “You’ll all pay.”
Marshall cleared his throat loudly. “I think the little interlude has come to an end. Shall we continue?”
“Yes, let’s,” Bonnie sniffed. “Never seen something so unruly in all my life.” Sniffing in my direction, she tilted her chin. “Another word out of you, Weaver, and you won’t like the consequences.”
Daniel moaned, “But Grandmamma—”
“Buzzard, zip it,” Cut growled. “Sit down or leave. But don’t fucking talk again.”
Daniel muttered under his breath but plonked back into his chair.
Jasmine grabbed the red-sodden material and shoved it under my nose. “Hold this, shut up, and don’t get into any more trouble.”
The skirmish ended; no one moved.
Silence hovered thick over the table.
The only sound was the heavy ticking of a grandfather clock by the gold ladder leading to the limited editions above. Side lamps had been switched on, filling the large space with warm illumination, while curtains blocked any remaining light that dared trespass on priceless books or fade cherished words.
Finally, Marshall sucked in a breath. He rearranged his fountain pen again. “Now that we’re all on the same page, I’ll carry on.” Looking at me, he said, “For the rest of this meeting, you may address me as Marshall, or by my first name, which is Colin. These are my colleagues.”
Pointing to the man closest to him: a potbellied, watery-eyed bald guy, he continued, “This is Hartwell Backham, followed by Samuel Cole, and my son Matthew Marshall.”
My nose ached but the bleeding had stopped, leaving me stuffed up. I glowered at the men. There wasn’t an ounce of mercy in their gazes.