His question makes me hesitate. They’d texted me about Delilah and the godmother predicament after we’d eaten dinner the other night. Apparently, Lily had changed her mind and wanted to baptize Delilah—to cover our asses with God, she’d said—which meant the godparents needed to be present. They were having the ceremony in Paris next weekend.
“Maybe.”
“Lily would really like to have you there, Evelyn.”
I bite my lip, staring at the wall of skeletons. “Okay. Count me in. But I’m still not happy about possibly co-parenting Delilah with Benedict if you guys die.”
He laughs. “Goodbye, Evelyn.”
I hang up and look around, sighing. I could think of hundreds of men in Paris who deserved to be forever cemented in a wall like this. The men who’d slapped me during sex for fun. The men who didn’t care if they were hurting me, who choked me while they came, though I was gasping for air, begging them to stop. Men like Auguste, who preyed on nice, unsuspecting women and lured them away from a New Year’s Eve celebration to kidnap them.
Auguste.
He deserved to be embedded in this wall forever, his shame on display for everyone to see. In fact, I’d like to see him plastered alive, his screams echoing across the stone walls. He wouldn’t be able to move—would run his voice ragged from begging for help. And then, he’d take his last breath, the hardening cement suffocating him slowly, the claustrophobic feeling of not being able to move—something I felt often—the last thought before his body gave up fighting…
Closing my eyes, I ball my fists, counting to ten. When I’m finished, I turn the lamp off and head upstairs, where Zoey is waiting outside. I close the church door and we make our way to the train station.
“So, anything?” Zoey asks.
I give her a small smile. “Some old tables and an engraving.”
As we walk away, I look back at the church and smile again, imagining all of the evil men forever embedded into the heart of the church—their souls forever trapped.Justice.That’s what those women sought.And looks to me that they found it.
God rest their souls.
Draw and Quarter
Evelyn Snow
London,Present
I order us a round of tequila shots at Cafe Pacifico in Camden Town a couple of hours later. Zoey has a friend, Annie, who works here. It doesn’t surprise me, because she seems to know everyone, especially people in central London. Annie hooked us up with a booth and free tequila shots. If England gets anything wrong about America, it’s most definitely Mexican food and decor. I glance around, trying not to roll my eyes at the obtuse music and grungy decorations.
“The nachos are delicious,” Zoey suggests, pointing to the item on the menu.
I quickly glance down, smirking. “They’re made with Doritos,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’m not eating nachos made of Doritos.”
She laughs. “Okay, fine. Suit yourself.”
Annie brings us a tray of shots. As she strolls away, we lift the glasses to our lips, knocking the liquid back.
When Zoey leaves to go to the restroom, I look around at all of the people, wondering what it must be like to have lived a normal life. Grow up with loving parents. Go to college. Get a job. Go on dates. Get married. Have kids. What does a life without darkness look like, I wonder? What is it like to not constantly feel bogged down by the past, or see the faces of monsters upon every stranger’s face? What’s it like to not feel such intense emotion toward a man whose bravery saved you?
We order two more rounds of shots, and the tension I always carry with me loosens, like the alcohol is melting the bulletproof exterior I keep around myself at all times. Zoey pulls us onto the dance floor. I haven’t been to very many places like this, aside from our local pubs, since before everything happened. But tonight, it’s like I’m a normal, 29-year-old. As the minutes wear on, we order some food, dance to more music, and I find myself laughing—sincerely laughing—for the first time in a long time.
Until a pair of cool hands wrap around my waist. I spin, finding a man with a leering smile towering over me.
“No, thanks,” I say, shoving his hands off me.
“You don’t want to play, kitten?” he asks, his accent French. The sound of it—the way the nickname wraps around that familiar accent—does something to me, and I turn to face him fully.
“I asked you to get the fuck away from me,” I say, this time a little louder. I shove my hands against his chest and he stumbles backwards.
“You’re a fucking cunt,” he yells back, shaking his head.
Fire rolls through me, and before I know it, I’m making my way to the bar. The bartender is busy, so it takes a few minutes to get his attention. I glance back and see Zoey dancing with some random girl, and I smile. Women taking care of other women makes me happy. We have to look out for ourselves, because the men sure aren’t going to save us.
“Hi, can I get twenty shots of the Macallan?” I ask, gesturing to the bottle sitting on the very top shelf of the bar. I roll my eyes and shake my head. “My boyfriend made partner at his firm, and he wants to celebrate.” The bartender watches me skeptically. I twirl my hair and point behind me. “He said he had a card on tab, right? The guy in a plaid,” I explain, pointing to the man from earlier. He’s with a group of people, and they already have a magnum of champagne. I figure the £60 shot looks like it belongs.
