I pour another glass and drink it the way Lukas taught me—no chaser, no wince, straight down the gullet. The vodka is cold and clean, but I feel no better after it’s gone than I did before I drank it.
Across the city, Jillian Pierce is doing whatever Jillian Pierce does on Thanksgiving. Eating with friends, I’d assume. Probably Rae Everett, if Rae isn’t currently tangled up in whatever web my father is spinning around her.
Or maybe Jillian is alone, too, just like I am. Maybe she’s at that kitchen counter where I left her, with a glass of whiskey, same as me, staring at the same wall I had her pinned against.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I know that. The math hasn’t changed: Kill her or Afon does it for me. Those are the only two outcomes Lukas will accept, and every hour I waste
