The thought depressed me, but I stayed by Peter’s grave for several minutes, silently paying my respects again and thinking about what I was going to do tonight. My plan was simple, really: make sure that Bart the Butcher got the message to leave Isabelle alone for good.

   By any means necessary.

   Once I’d finished at Peter’s grave, I went over to another one—my dad’s.

   Fletcher Lane flowed across the tombstone, along with the dates of his birth and death. It was a plain, simple marker, far smaller than some of the massive angels, spires, and ornate slabs of stone that rose up from many other graves. The only thing that was remarkable about it was that Gin’s tombstone was right next to it, featuring her spider rune, along with the date of her supposed death earlier this year. The thought of how Gin had suckered Madeline Monroe into thinking she was dead brought a ghost of a smile to my face, but it quickly faded, and I focused on Dad’s tombstone again.

   A small jar of barbecue sauce perched on top of the marker, telling me that Gin had been here recently, whispering her secrets to Dad and any other ghost who would listen. I reached out, swiped the glass container off the stone, and slid it into my coat pocket. She always brought a jar of sauce and left it for the old man, and I always took it, just to make her think that Dad was getting her presents in the great beyond. It was a silly tradition on my part, but I thought the illusion made Gin feel just a little bit better, like Dad wasn’t completely lost to her. That made me smile too, but the expression quickly slipped from my face again.

   My gaze went past Dad’s tombstone and up the hill to where Deirdre was buried. For years, her casket had been empty, although Dad had let everyone, including me, think that she was dead and resting in peace up there. He’d even brought me to the cemetery a few times when I was a kid to put flowers on her grave, never once letting on that she wasn’t actually in there.

   Well, she was definitely buried there now, thanks to me.

   I’d put three bullets in my mother to save Gin, including a kill shot right through her ice-cold heart. After the coroner had released Deirdre’s body, Gin had asked if I’d wanted to have a service for her, but I’d said no. At that point, I’d just wanted my mother to be dead and buried for real—forever. I just wanted to be done with Deirdre fucking Shaw and all the lies she’d told, once and for all.

   Easier said than done.

   I pushed away my turbulent thoughts, crouched down, and focused on Dad’s tombstone again.

   “Well,” I said, “I’m sure you know everything that’s happened. How much I fucked up. Everyone else certainly does.”

   Of course, Dad didn’t answer me. But for the first time in days, no one was hovering around, no Gin pushing food at me or Bria giving me sympathetic looks. No one was trying to make sure that I was okay, and I felt I could breathe just a little bit easier than before. Or maybe that was just because no one was around to glare at me with accusing, tear-filled eyes, letting me know that I was the cause of all their pain, misery, and heartache.

   “I know you’re disappointed in me,” I said, plucking a blade of brown grass out of the ground and twirling it around in my hand. “That I didn’t take Gin’s warning—your warning—about Deirdre to heart. That I didn’t listen to Gin when she told me about that letter you’d left for her. I should have listened to her and to you too. I will always regret that. I just wish you had told Gin to give me that other letter as soon as Deirdre came to town. The one you wrote to me. But you were hoping that Deirdre had changed, weren’t you? You wanted me to give her a chance. Now people are dead because of your hope and my foolishness. And there’s nothing I can do to change that. There’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

   The emotions rose in me again, as cold, bitter, and caustic as ever. The guilt, the shame, the crushing disappointment at the fact that Deirdre had just been using me the whole time. My chest tightened, and my lungs felt like two chunks of elemental Ice in my chest, as though they had been flash-frozen by my mother’s magic. But I closed my eyes and forced myself to take in slow, deep breaths, riding the wave of emotions until they had subsided to a more manageable level.

   I opened my eyes and stared at Dad’s tombstone. “But most of all, I wish you were still here so I could tell you how sorry I am. For not appreciating you more when you were alive. For not realizing how much you always looked out for me, protected me, loved me. I am the man I am today because of you, and I will always be grateful for that, my mistakes and all.”

   The last few words came out as a soft, raspy whisper, and the wind whistled down the ridge, sweeping them away. But I knew Dad had heard them, wherever he was. And I knew what he would want me to do now. It was the same thing he would have done, if he’d still been here.

   I reached out and placed a hand on the marker, feeling the chill from the stone sink into my skin. But unlike Deirdre’s Ice magic, this cold didn’t bother me. If anything, it grounded me and cleared my mind. Maybe even my heart a little too. I traced my fingers over his name, then got to my feet.

   “I’ll come back one day soon, and we’ll talk some more,” I said. “But right now, I’ve got a hot date with a dangerous giant.”

   I tipped my head at his marker one more time before sliding my hands into my coat pockets and walking away.

       6

   I went back to my car and opened the trunk, getting ready to face off against Bart the Butcher.

   The first thing I did was strip off my coat and suit, despite the fact that it was only about thirty degrees outside. I knew that any confrontation with Bart would end only one way—bloody—and I didn’t want to ruin my threads, even if they weren’t as nice as the giant’s. Shivering, I unzipped a duffel bag and quickly put on a black turtleneck sweater, along with some black corduroy pants and heavy-duty boots. A black leather jacket added some more much-needed warmth, along with a black wool cap.

   I checked my gun, making sure that it was still ready to fire, screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel, and stuck it into my coat pocket. Isabelle might not have close neighbors, but I still wanted to minimize any noise I might make during my confrontation with Bart. Once that was done, I slid some extra clips of ammo into my other coat pocket, along with a set of brass knuckles. Bart had his fancy gold rings, and I wanted something to level the playing field.