Chapter 2Her Broken Pet Bites Back

The trust-fund crowd didn't make a sound. You could hear the hum of the ice machine behind the private bar.

Camille dropped to the floor beside Keegan, her manicured fingers hovering over his contorted wrist. Every time she brushed near it, he convulsed in agony.

She threw her head back, looking up at me like I was a rabid dog that had slipped its leash. "Dean! Have you completely lost your mind?!"

I rolled my shoulders, keeping my voice mild. "He set the rules. Equal trade. When did following the terms become crazy?"

Keegan burrowed against her blazer, weeping softly, trembling like an abused puppy. "Camille... I just wanted him to feel included... I didn't know he hated me this much... It’s my fault, all my fault..."

It was the classic script. The same routine he’d used to bleed my predecessor dry for three long years. And, right on cue, Camille’s last thread of rational thought snapped.

She helped Keegan up, wrapping an arm around his waist. "You are disgusting, Dean. Utterly deranged. We will deal with this the second I get home."

The girl in the silk dress edged toward the exit, smiling like she was facing a firing squad. "Hey, uh... Dean? We’re gonna take off, okay?"

I gave her a curt chin-nod. She practically tripped over her own heels, dragging two other socialites out the door before the latch even clicked.

I surveyed the wreckage of the booth, picked my leather jacket up off the banquette, and walked out into the cool evening air.

By the time the cab dropped me off at the Townsend estate, the heavy wrought-iron gates were already shut. Standing dead center in the grand portico was Edgar, the Townsend family’s longtime head butler, his chin pointed up at the chandeliers like he was royalty and I was a stain on the rug.

"So the master finally decided to come home?" Edgar sneered.

He gestured with his chin toward the courtyard.

Laid out on the wet, cold flagstones was a rough burlap sack. Next to it sat a battered stainless steel dog bowl containing an inch of murky, gray tap water.

"Mrs. Townsend brought Mr. Pryor home to rest," Edgar said smoothly, crossing his hands behind his back. "She instructed that you are to kneel out here on the stones and reflect on your behavior. When you’ve cleared your head, you may enter. Mr. Pryor was kind enough to suggest the water, in case your throat gets dry while you think."

I stared at that burlap sack, and a sudden, sharp ache ripped through the back of my skull—a ghost memory from the man who used to own this body.

During his first week in this house, he had accidentally chipped an antique teacup Keegan had bought for Camille. Edgar had forced him to kneel on these exact stones in the freezing rain for two straight hours. The pneumonia that followed had kept him bedridden with a hundred-and-three fever for an entire week. Camille hadn't asked about him once.

I narrowed my eyes, feeling that familiar, electric twitch in my fists.

"Edgar," I murmured. "Say that again. What did she tell you to do?"

Edgar assumed my quiet tone was the usual cowardice creeping back in. He puffed out his chest, stepping down the marble steps. "Mrs. Townsend said you are to kneel—"

Before the word fully cleared his teeth, my boot connected with his solar plexus.

The old man folded like a lawn chair, crashing face-first onto the burlap sack, sending the steel dog bowl clattering across the stone, dirty water splashing all over his starched collar.

I walked over to the garden hose coiled near the hydrangeas, turned the brass spigot all the way to the left, and blasted him dead in the face with freezing well water.

"Aaaagh! Stop! Security! Security!" Edgar flailed like a drowning rat, spitting muddy water onto his velvet slippers.

Within seconds, half a dozen estate security guards came spilling out from the carriage house. Edgar rolled onto his knees, choking out screams through the spray: "He’s lost it! Five grand cash bonus to whoever pins him to the ground!"

The guards’ eyes lit up with predatory greed. They lunged at me in an uncoordinated wave.

I couldn't help but smile. In less than sixty seconds, five of them were groaning on the wet lawn with dislocated shoulders, bruised ribs, and cracked jaws. The last one backed away slowly with his hands raised, shaking his head.

Edgar was pressed against the garden retaining wall, soaked to the bone, staring at the carnage around him with dead, terrified eyes. As I walked toward him, dragging the heavy brass nozzle of the hose along the pavement, he scrambled backward through the mud.

"D-don't... stay away from me..."

Heavy heels clicked rapidly on the marble steps behind me.

Camille stood under the portico, her silk blouse rumpled, eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she took in the groaning guards and her trembling, mud-caked head butler.

"What is the meaning of this?!" she gasped, marching toward me.

Edgar saw his lifeline. He dragged himself across the gravel, clawing at the hem of her trousers. "Mrs. Townsend! Thank God! He’s gone completely feral! He attacked us the second he walked through the gate—you have to call the police!"

Camille turned to me, her jaw clenched, her eyes ablaze with disgust. "Dean, you—"

I reached casually into my jacket pocket, pulled out my smartphone, and tapped the screen.

Edgar’s smug, arrogant voice drifted clearly through the courtyard speakers: "...Mrs. Townsend brought Mr. Pryor home to rest. She instructed that you are to kneel out here on the stones... Mr. Pryor was kind enough to suggest the water..."

Camille’s face went through three distinct shades of pale before settling on ash gray.

Edgar’s pathetic wailing died in his throat.

I tucked the phone back into my pocket, meeting Camille's stricken eyes with an amused, steady gaze.

"Tell me, Camille," I said, my voice cutting through the damp night air. "Is it standard operating procedure in the Townsend family for the hired help to treat the master of the house like a stray dog?"

Her lips parted, but not a single sound came out.

I turned around, stepped over a groaning guard, and walked up the front steps. Halfway to the landing, I paused and looked back down at the terrified cluster of maids and groundskeepers who had gathered near the hedges.

"From this night forward," I said evenly, "anyone in this house who forgets their place can come find me. I’d love to show you what actually going crazy looks like."

The courtyard was dead silent, save for a chorus of quiet, panicked murmurs: "Yes, sir. Understood, sir."

I turned back toward the foyer.

From now on, this house had a new owner.