“Were you and dad in love?” I ask, even though I could snarkily spit back that she doesn’t know shit about my ‘little gang’. I mean, that’d be true. She doesn’t. She doesn’t know a fucking thing about Havoc or me or even Heather—especially not Penelope. Nothing. Nothing at all. “I mean, he was married when you met, and so much older. That must’ve been hard.”
Pamela just stares back at me from emerald eyes, ones that I’m familiar with because I look in the goddamn mirror every single day and see her. The last name on my list. The very last motherfucking name.
“Are you an idiot, Bernadette?” is how she chooses to respond to that statement. She slams her hands down on the surface of the table and one of the guards calls out a warning. “I’m rotting in jail, and you’re here asking about me and your father?”
“You didn’t kill him, too, did you?” I ask, because as far as I know, my father hanged himself. Then again, until recently, I’d assumed my older sister had shoved a bottle of pills down her throat and ended things. Some tragedies are not what they appear. “Dad, I mean. The way you killed Penelope.”
The words come up like bile, tainting my mouth and making my tongue feel sour. I crave to hold the hand of a Havoc Boy, any Havoc Boy, any at all. If I could just do that, wrap my fingers with one of theirs, I could stay calm, the way I have for weeks since I found out.
Weeks of pushing this down, walling it off, acting like it isn’t real.
I grind my nail into the scratched surface of HAVOC on the table, just to keep my fingers from digging into Pam’s eyes the way I did to James’. My other hand, I use to prop up my chin, to keep up the act, the one that says I don’t care about any of this.
I’m just Bernadette Savannah Blackbird, bad bitch and gangbanger.
Only … that’s a pipe dream. I wish that I could be that girl all the time, that I never felt sad or insecure, confused or angry. Devastated. Shattered. Broken up and bleeding. But I do. I feel all those things all the time—especially right now.
“Bernadette,” Pam begins, giving me another look as she pushes blond hair back from her face. She looks so young right now, and so sad. Pathetic, actually. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I mean that—in-between playing games with Neil and the Grand Murder Party—you killed Penelope. It isn’t even a question, is it? You did it. But how? That’s the thing that’s been haunting me at night, the one thing that I just cannot shake.”
We stare at each other for a long, long moment. As we do, I wonder if I haven’t made a mistake allowing Pamela to end up in jail. Now, with a huge court case coming up, and her guilt providing an avenue for the VGTF to pursue RICO charges—that is, gang-related charges—against the GMP, there’s no way for me to get to her.
I mentioned finding one of Stacey’s girls to do the dirty work, to hang her from her sheets. I may still do that.
Pam’s case is an important part of bringing down everything and everyone else: Neil (posthumously of course), his father, his brother, Ophelia, Maxwell Barrasso. Every rich fucker that’s ever purchased a child from the GMP and all that money they launder through Trinity’s mother’s foundation, Save Our Precious Children League. If she dies, the VGTF will assume that the GMP arranged it. I mean, they very well could be in the process of doing just that as we speak. I could get away with it. Is that what you really want, Bernie? Is it?
The answer is: I have no fucking clue.
“Did you hold a gun to her? Make her take the pills?” I keep staring at Pamela as bits and pieces of my sister’s journal filter through my head. She wasn’t planning on dying, was she? When she asked me things like, do you think you’d be okay without me? She was planning on running. Escaping. Going to Nan-motherfucking-tucket.
I close my eyes for a moment, my heartbeat thundering, head spinning.
I’ve held it together for five weeks since I learned about Pam’s involvement in Penelope’s death.
And yet, for the first time, I’m really fucking feeling it.
I need my boys, I think, fingers digging into the sides of the table. But I can’t leave yet. Not without hearing her say it.
“You wearing a wire or something?” Pam asks, looking me over like she can’t imagine any other reason for me to be here. There’s an immediate tension in the air because I’ve already taken note of the fact that she hasn’t denied my claim, hasn’t sputtered and slammed her hands on the table and turned that funny pink color she does when she’s mad. She isn’t mad at the accusation because … it’s true.
I laugh at her, but then I feel something salty and reach up my fingers to touch the tear on my cheek. Fuck. I’m crying. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t. Even though I promised that I wouldn’t do this.
“I’m not a fucking snitch,” I growl back, with so much vehemence that Pamela actually reclines in her seat. This woman who accepted ten-grand to marry me off to a gangster. Who, for years, ordered me around and screamed in my face and called me horrible names while hiding the blood on her hands. “Oh, how I wish I were right now, that I could sell you out and watch you scramble in front of the media. All your rich friends know now, don’t they? Why you’ve been arrested. And they don’t care. In fact, they’re hoping you’ll take the fall for it, so they don’t have to pay for playing sick, little games with stolen children.”
“You’re a little liar and whore, just like your sister,” Pamela tells me, her vitriolic words twisting inside my head like a mantra. Liar and a whore. But I’m neither of those things. If anyone at this table is, it would be her. “Marrying your father and having the two of you was the worst mistake I ever made. If I could go back in time, I would abort Penelope and leave your predator daddy behind.”
The harsh bite of truth colors every word of that, but I don’t flinch. None of that surprises me. Pamela has never liked being a mom. The very idea of it makes her feel trapped, like a butterfly with its wings torn off.
“Why didn’t you just walk the fuck away?” I ask, staring her down and watching as she curls one hand into a fist, digging those chipped fingernails of hers into her palm. The way she looks down at my perfectly painted and bejeweled nails makes it plainly obvious that she’s jealous. Control. It was all about control.
“Why did you even come here?” Pamela asks, but I’m shaking my head again, leaning in close to her so I can whisper.
“You answer my questions now or I’ll see to it that you don’t survive to your trial date.”
Our eyes meet, and I notice just the briefest hesitation in her gaze, like she isn’t sure if she believes me or not. It takes a while for the idea to settle, the idea that she finally has no power over me. She can’t make me sit in Neil’s lap or watch Coraleigh put me in the car to take me to the Kushners.
My throat gets so tight that I suddenly find it impossible to breathe. I’m choking. I’m choking and I am so goddamn sad. Why am I so fucking sad all the time? One minute, I’ll be fine. I’ll know how many good things I still have in my life and how goddamn lucky I am. I’ve made it to seventeen-going-on-eighteen without being sexually assaulted. It’s a miracle. Getting my Havoc Boys back is a miracle.
I clamp an arm over my belly as I try to hold back the tears.
The miscarriage is a distant, edgy thing at the back of my mind. I didn’t want a baby, so I’m relieved. And I feel bad for being relieved. But I also know that if I did end up with a daughter, I’d know exactly how to be the perfect parent: be the opposite of Pamela. Embody love instead of hate.
I sit up and fold my arms across the surface of the table.
“Why did you marry my father?” I ask, because I need to know all of this. And, in this last moment, if Pamela can give me a scrap of something to hold onto, I’ll let her live the rest of her days out in prison. Frankly, it would be a better punishment than death really. She’ll hate the food and the lack of designer clothing, the absence of nail artists from Oak Park, the lack of a hairstylist with experience working on Hollywood stars. She’
ll hate this place because it will embody everything that she deserves: a desperate, empty, lonely cage. Forever.
At the same time, I know that my list of vengeance was not made for the people whose names ended up on it. It was designed for me, by me, and if you ever thought a personal vendetta was the only reason this story was penned, I feel sorry for you. If you thought all those soft and quiet in-between moments were filler, then you didn’t understand. If you disliked me because the ugly things inside of me made you see the ugly things inside of you, then you’re just as lost as I once was.
Not anymore.
Never again.
When Victor put that crown on my head, I knew that it wasn’t a reward for the violence, that it wasn’t a reward for bashing in James Barrasso’s head. It was a reward for reclaiming myself, for falling into my own skin and finding out that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Mixed reviews from critics stained with blood and tears,
The politics of a broken life are really just reality,
My words are what set me free, so if I have to be something polarizing,
Then that’s exactly what I’m going to be.
The poetry filters through my head, unbidden. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Any attempt to hold back that twisted prose would leave me writhing on the floor in agony, poisoned by it. Consumed by it. So I don’t bother. I just tap my pretty nails on the table and let it come, memorizing every line of my mother’s face so I know exactly the type of person that I never want to become.
“I married him for his money,” Pamela says, sitting back in her orange jumpsuit and looking like a supermodel even with the faint purple circles under her eyes. She’s pretty, just like me. We’re both pretty and look at what a curse it is. The world simultaneously rewards and punishes pretty, doesn’t it? “I’d have done anything back then to get away from your grandparents.” She keeps staring at me, but like she has no idea who I am or why I’m here. “Does that answer your fucking question, you ugly little brat?”
The insult bounces off of me. She can hate me all she wants. I have people who love me, so guess what? The worst the world has to throw at me means nothing. Her ugly words can’t take away the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve got the one thing I’ve always dreamed of: acceptance. A place to belong.
“Why did you want to get away from them?” I continue, realizing that this is literally the longest conversation we’ve had in years. How sad is that? Maybe Pamela would’ve seen something to like in me or Penelope or Heather if she’d bothered spending time with us?
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Pam sneers, looking away from me toward one of the guards, like she might ask to be taken back to her cell. My turn to slam both palms on the surface of the table. My turn to get a look from one of the guards.
I keep my eyes on my mother.
“Do you think I’m fucking kidding you?” I whisper, leaning in. Our eyes meet. “You know that we killed Neil, don’t you? You know that we buried that monster alive in a satin-lined coffin which was a far nicer end to his life than he deserved.”
Pamela’s eyes blaze with fury—especially because this isn’t news to her. She knows all about Neil’s death, his burial, the fact that the oxygen tank found in the coffin with him came from one of the nursing homes she moonlights at.
My mother leans forward, looking me dead in the face.
“Of all my children, you were always the worst. There were moments, early on, with Penelope where I thought I could be happy. But you? You were the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” Pam leans back after delivering what she thinks is a fatal blow crafted of words and pain. It hits me and slides right off like nothing.
“This is your absolute last chance to answer my questions,” I continue, proud of myself for keeping my breathing even and steady. “You know what happened to Neil. If you think being inside these walls keeps you safe, then you’re even more of a fool than I pegged you for years ago. Why did you want to get away from your parents?”
“I’m not giving you my autobiography,” Pam snaps back, and I go to stand up.
If that’s her final answer then … well, I’ll use my new connections with Vera and Stacey’s girls to get what I need. I’ll have her fucking killed, and I’ll slash her name from my list with a lipstick color that reminds me of Penelope, and then I’ll probably cry for a while.
Throughout it all, I’ll have the Havoc Boys to fall into.
Even now, they’re waiting for me outside, piled on the roof or the hood of the Camaro, smoking, watching, waiting. Five boys in black with crude letters crafted of ink on their left hands, their hearts dark and obsessive, but poignant in their determination, in their love. Unfailing.
“Your grandfather was a drunk. He beat me and your grandmother. He used to fuck her, too, while she screamed. Does that answer your question?” Pam snaps as I lower myself back to the seat across from her. Those familiar green eyes of hers blaze with pain, but I can only sympathize so much. She is no longer just a victim; she is a perpetrator. There is no excuse for that. None at all. “I married your father because he was wealthy, and he wanted me. He wanted me so much that he divorced his wife of ten years.”
I stare at her and try to imagine her at my age, with one kid and another on the way.
“He was too old for you,” I say instead, but Pam just shrugs.
“He had money. He could take care of me.” She looks away for a moment, and I wonder if I don’t see some spark of emotion there. When she glances back however, there’s nothing. “The only man I ever loved was Neil, and you took him from me.”
“You let him rape your daughter,” I hiss back, but Pamela’s face shows me nothing. It occurs to me that sometimes people are just broken; struggling and clawing my way toward empathy does nothing, accomplishes nothing. “How long did you know about it?” I ask, and I can see in the casual shrug of her shoulders, it was a long time. “Did you know he was fucking a teenage girl named Kali Rose-Kennedy? That she was pregnant with his kid?”
“You kill her, too?” Pamela shoots back at me, her nostrils flaring. “Because they’re trying to peg that on me.” Oh, shit. I didn’t know that one yet. Where did the guys bury her? I wonder. On Tom’s land? I suppose it doesn’t matter now. With the Grand Murder Party taking blame for most of our crimes, and Pamela taking the fall for the rest, we could really and truly walk away from this thing with ‘clean’ hands. “Neil didn’t love her. He just had desires that I couldn’t fulfill.”
“I hate you,” I tell her, and I mean that. With every single molecule of my heart, I mean that. It’s not like when I say it to Victor or Oscar and what I really mean is I love you so much it hurts, so much that it aches and burns and bleeds from the very depths of my wicked soul. “That’s why I saved you for last. You know that, right? Out of everyone that’s ever hurt me, your betrayal is the worst. It cuts the deepest.” I pause again, wondering if I should ask about Penelope’s things, but what’s the point? Pam either sold them or gave them away or, hell, threw them in a dumpster somewhere and sent them to the landfill. I won’t ever have anything that isn’t in that box marked Old Homework and Assignments in sweet, soft, looping letters. “How did you do it, Pam? How did you kill my sister?”
“Nice try baiting me into a confession; it isn’t going to happen.” She stands up and one of the guards begins to approach the table.
“Tell me the truth or I bury you,” I growl back at her, but she refuses to look at me. “Pamela!” The guard comes over and reapplies her handcuffs, guiding her away from me as I stand there, shaking and panting and probably crying again. “Mom!”
With a snarl, I hit the table with the heel of my hand so hard that I actually cry out, cradling it against my chest as I shove up to my feet and storm over to the exit.
Sara Young is waiting just past the metal detectors, leaning against a wall and smiling sympathetically back at me.
“Did you get anything out of that?” she asks me, but I’m sure she can a
lready tell, based on the wetness glistening on my cheeks, or the way I’m cradling my hand against a chest full of broken, ugly things.
“You mean did I get the closure I was so desperately seeking?” I choke out with a harsh laugh. It isn’t fair. I’m supposed to get some sort of closure. That’s what the list is about. That’s how books work. Movies. Comics. The hero confronts the villain and gets all the answers. But … real life makes no narrative sense. “No.”
I start to head for the door, but Sara reaches out, capturing my upper arm.
“What did you come here for, Bernadette?” she asks, and even though I know I should just yank my arm away and storm out of the building, her brown gaze is clement and indulgent. In her own way, Sara cares about me.
I stare down at her hand on my arm and she very carefully pulls it away, still watching me, dressed in a black cap, jeans, and a Polo shirt. Now that she isn’t playing the doe-eyed police girl, her outfits have changed. I was getting played much harder than I thought by sweet little Sara Young.
“I wanted to know if she really did it,” I say, my voice a hollow echo of its usual self. My eyes narrow and the corners of my lips turn down in an exaggerated frown. “I think that by avoiding coming here, I thought I could avoid the reality of it. But I just … can’t anymore.” I look back up at Sara’s face, dark with a melancholic sort of sympathy. “Pamela murdered Penelope for the crime of … what? Being a victim? Being abused and ignored and cast aside. I don’t understand it.”
“People like you and me will never understand people like Pamela Pence.” Sara stands up straight and turns to face me, like we need to be on level ground in order for this conversation to happen. “Someone who fights against their own self-interest, who believes in something that’s corrupt and broken. Bernadette, I know you said your mother seemed upset over that video with Neil and Penelope, but … I don’t think it was for the reasons you wanted it to be.”
Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5) Page 31