8

The garage door rattled shut, sealing her in darkness. Victoria avoided the rearview mirror, her sheared reflection still an oddity. She dug her fists into her thighs and concentrated on her breathing. Anger. Fear. Anticipation. It was difficult to determine which was leading the charge. The last time she’d felt this alive had been on the eve of her father’s death. Unable to take control of Livingston, yes, but free from his restraints in a way that left her gasping.

She wanted to feel that way again: boundless and terrified of the open water yet eager for more.

Inside, Victoria dropped her coat and purse on the chair and kicked off her boots. She shivered at the unfamiliar sensation of the draft on her shoulders, but the resulting chill seemed more like a promise than a regret. Following her gut hadn’t steered her wrong today.

Gathering the materials from the cabinet, she jogged upstairs and inspected the bedroom. The plastic wasn’t going to cover everything. The ceilings were too high, and the tallest ladder was stored in the shed to which Warren had the only key. She had enough to cover the immediate areas, however. That would have to suffice.

The drop cloths were just a failsafe, after all. Her Type A personality refused to let her ignore the potential for disaster. As long as Warren followed her lead, as he did most other nights, there would be no need for murderproofing. The act would be tidy and contained. What she’d gleaned from her true crime podcasts was that too little planning led to mistakes, and too much planning led to overthinking the execution. Victoria figured that covering her ass in case tonight led to unexpected blood was somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.

Wrapping herself in a robe, she opened the first box of supplies and got down to business.

The next hour passed quickly. She lost herself in the whoosh and crinkle of materials. Sometimes she would hum a tune. That new Lizzo song was quite catchy. Feel-good and representative of the hope she felt blooming in her chest. Mostly, though, she used the time for reflection.

She thought about Warren, of course. Their beginning and their inevitable conclusion.

She thought about her mother, how frequently and fervently she emphasized the necessity of beauty.

She thought about her father: his sweeping demands for her to be the best, even if that meant exposing her worst tendencies. Excellence was never good enough. She had to strive for perfection, no matter the cost. Friendships. Lovers. Sanity. Victoria was under no illusion that, conventionally speaking, murdering her husband to sever their ties and preserve her free will was frowned upon.

That didn’t stop the little voice in her head from whispering that all things considered, Jeremy Livingston would be proud of her decision.

Taking a life. Regaining a life. Balance.

Here, she lingered. What would Warren’s final thoughts be? Would he recognize that his end was looming? Would he reach for her in the darkness?

Victoria imagined him floating away, the lids of his eyes fluttering in unconsciousness. Perhaps that was why she missed the arrival of her sister.

One minute she was taping down the corner of a particularly tricky section of drop cloth, the next her bedroom door flung wide open, slamming into the wall as Teagan charged forward. She waved a knife wildly, casting frantic glances around the room like she was expecting Michael Myers to pop out of the closet.

“Jesus Christ.” The knife dropped to Teagan’s side as she stared at Victoria. Seconds, minutes, she had no idea how long she stood there, fish-mouthed and silent, trying and failing to figure out what the hell was happening.

“Tor,” Teagan said, dragging her name through molasses, “what did you do?”

Nothing—yet—she thought, suddenly infuriated by her little sister’s accusatory tone. “You broke my door.”

“The door,” she repeated, as if she couldn’t be hearing her right. “Sure. The door is the issue here.” Teagan’s gaze wandered. “What is this?”

Victoria made a noise of disapproval and stood, crossing her arms and giving Teagan the look. The I’m-older-and-you’re-annoying look. She’d mastered it over the years and used it to her advantage whenever she could. Including right now.

“What are you doing here, Teagan?”

For all her father’s emphasis on building a Livingston empire, Victoria and Teagan hadn’t quite figured out how to be around each other. Sisters, yes. They shared a bloodline that she recognized and honored. But honing the essence of what made sisters more than siblings? That inexplicable tie that transformed a relationship to a bond? That had always been missing for them.

Teagan did not stop by for casual chats or girls’ nights. Her abrupt appearance raised all of Victoria’s alarms.

“Me?” Teagan squealed. “What even—what is this? What are you doing? And what the hell did you do to your hair?”

She snuffed the urge to mimic Teagan’s dumbfounded expression. Instead, Victoria smirked and fidgeted with the blunt edges. The pixie cut had been a bold choice; Kimber had agreed. But with every inch that had fallen to the floor, Victoria had felt the years of suffocation sloughing off too.

“Yeah,” she said, her expression softening. “I needed a change.”

“This isn’t just change, Tor; this is cleaning out the whole damn account.” She gripped Victoria’s chin, turning her head this way and that, inspecting the styled pieces. “You haven’t had short hair since—”

“Since,” she interrupted, “I was ten and you decided to play Sweeney Todd?”

Teagan scoffed. “It was like an inch of hair, drama queen. Let it go.”

Let it go, she thought, mentally kicking Teagan in the shin. Their mother had literally banished her to her bedroom for two days when she saw what Teagan had done. There had been an emergency trip to the salon, where the stylist agreed that nothing could be done to save her. Her face burned at the memory.

“I should’ve shaved your eyebrows off,” Victoria said, wrenching out of her hold.

“Aw, come on, are you going to stay big mad about that forever?”

“Yes.”

“It was hilarious.”

“A riot,” she deadpanned.

Teagan closed the gap between them. “Hey, in all seriousness: you can talk to me about anything. Chopping off your hair is a massive cry for help.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “I’m not crying out for help, Teagan, god. I’m trying something new. Not a crime.”

“Technically.”

Bitch, she thought, before a trickle of insecurity took hold. “It looks good, though, right? Kimber said it accentuates my long neck and cheekbones.”

Because as much as Teagan sought her approval, Victoria wasn’t immune to the need for acceptance. She waited patiently as Teagan’s eyes raked across her face, her judgment calculating like an Instagram filter.

“Objectively, yes, it looks good,” Teagan concluded. “But it’s still weird.”

“Wow, love you, too, Teags.” She felt better, though. Weird left room for adjustment, and Teagan would get used to her new look, just like she’d get used to existing on her own.

Victoria tossed the roll of painter’s tape on the bed before rolling up the excess plastic sheeting. As if this was the most normal thing for her to be doing on a Friday night before the Gala.

“Don’t be a bitch, you know what I mean,” Teagan chided. “I walked in expecting Rapunzel and found Tinkerbell.”

“Why are you here?” Victoria asked curtly. “And why do you have my cleaver?”

Teagan turned the knife over in her hand like she was seeing it for the first time. “You didn’t answer the door or your phone. I got scared. Thought maybe you had an intruder.”

“You and your horror movies. You need to stop watching Shudder.”

“Hey, I watch the news too,” Teagan said.

“Like that’s any better. And what did you think you were even going to do with that?” she asked.

“Um, stab?” Teagan shrugged, almost dropping the knife.

“Jesus, you’re impossible.” The absurdity of the situation rolled over her in subtle waves. Teagan was more likely to stab herself in the leg than actually land a blow against an attacker. Her sister was the stuff of fluff. Cotton candy and angel plushies. And here Victoria was mid-murder preparation. “I thought surgeons were supposed to be good with a blade. Maybe that’s butchers.”

“Well, I have handled my fair share of meat, so.”

Victoria rolled her eyes again but chuckled. “Cute.”

“Get it? I was talking about—”

“Yes, please, it’s funnier if you have to explain the joke.”

“All right, all right. Kill joy,” Teagan said.

“Child.”

The sisters settled into the lightened moment, a tentative truce in a room full of plastic.