Page 70 of Blood Queen
I don’t trust Marcy. Not completely.
But maybe… just maybe, she’s right.
My fingers move before I can stop them, typing out a message.
Me:What exactly would going to Miami entail? What would you expect from me?
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Seconds pass.
Then minutes.
Then my phone buzzes.
I inhale sharply before looking at the screen.
Marcy:Let’s discuss.
37
Present
I’m on the edge of her well-worn couch, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt, heart racing. My chest feels too tight—like I can’t breathe right. But no matter how hard I try to still my nerves, the blood-red glow of the news reports flashing on the TV keeps dragging me back to reality. The deaths are everywhere. The wordsmurdered,mob bosses,executedkeep cutting through my brain like a blade. I’ve been here for forty-eight hours. I couldn’t go to Truman. I couldn’t risk it.
She was the only logical alternative.
Marcy’s house feels too small now, even though she’s been kind enough to hide me in her quiet little corner of North Carolina. The sound of the TV is a constant, unnerving hum in the background. I should feel safer.
I’m with Marcy, right? She’s helped me before. But now? Now, it feels like the walls are closing in. Like I can’t escape the weight of what I’ve done.
I run a hand through my hair, letting out a shaky breath.
“They’re calling you The Blood Queen,” she says bewildered.
“I know,” I snap, not caring that it’s probably too harsh. “But that’s what they do, right? Come up with catchy names for people? I don’t care about the name. I care about what’s next.”
Marcy’s not dumb. She’s not going to pretend she doesn’t see the wild, nervous energy in me. My usual calm is gone. It’s been gone since I pulled the trigger on my uncle and his cohorts. Since I wiped out the families.
Now it’s only the quiet, disorienting panic that’s consuming me.
I know Marcy well enough to know that she’s trying to put it all together, working her journalist’s brain at full speed. But the horror on her face is still there, creeping into her eyes. “Evany, you—this can’t—”
I cut her off. “What? It’s a nightmare, right? I never wanted this. But they killed my papa, my family. And now…” I trail off, voice shaky.
I can’t even finish the thought.
She swallows hard, still looking torn between anger and sympathy, and then shifts her gaze to the TV. They’re playing the footage of the crime scene now—images of the bodies, the chaos in the wake of the killings. I feel a cold sweat break out across my skin.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, her voice unsteady. “I thought theFalcone, Testa,Scarfo, andLeonettifamilies would be too big to topple. You toppled them all. You killed them, Evany. You—”
I look at her sharply, trying to rein in the surge of panic trying to claw its way out. I nod, glancing at the screen. The news anchor’s words are swirling around in my head like a blur.
Surprising reports have emerged, with a surviving guard claiming that the ruthless assassin responsible for the mobbosses’ deaths was a woman. Authorities have yet to confirm details, but the survivor referred to the mysterious figure as a ‘The Blood Queen.’
I stand up, pacing, a little frantic now. She disappears into the closet, rummaging for a moment. When she returns, she’s holding a thick stack of old journals, bound in leather. My journals.
My heart drops.
