Daisy Haites: The Great Undoing: Book 4 (Magnolia Parks Universe)
Daisy Haites: Chapter 3

I think about what happened with her in the hospital every day. Wear it around my neck like a yoke that weighs me down and reminds me what the fuck I am — that my stupid sister’s wrong, she doesn’t know shit, I’m as bad as they say I am — the proof is in every single thing I said to her that day because they weren’t just fighting words, I wanted to put her in the ground.

Me and Dais, we know each other too well not to destroy each other. And I knew as I was saying them that they weren’t these fucking hapless, blind words — I knew what I was doing. Knew saying it wouldn’t just make her feel sad and alone in that moment but would probably strip from her every sense of security I’d spent my whole life building up for her.

So I know she’s wrong. There is no good in me, just in her, and I didn’t put up a fight when she said she wanted to be normal, whatever the fuck that means—

She wanted out? Fine. Fuck her. She’s out, I don’t need her. Even if she’s my best friend, even if walking away from her that day felt like lopping myself in half.

Had to get out of London pretty quick after that, Scotland Yard breathing down my back and shit.

Probably worked out good in the end. I don’t know what sort of shit I’d have gotten up to here without Daisy to keep me in check when I was that angry.

It was on the way home from the hospital that I got the call from Declan telling me not to come back to the Compound, that the police were there and waiting with an arrest warrant.

Koa and I ditched the car, made it on foot to the Bambrillas’ hangar out in Clavering.

Flew into the Onasis family’s airstrip over in upstate New York. Thought for a hot minute about paying someone a visit, but it felt too risky. We drove south to Florida. Paid a guy in Key Largo to go Nassau, Nassau to Cayo Romano. Cayo Romano to Baracoa, Baracoa to Haiti — they nearly caught me in Cap-Haïtien but we got away, made it over the border into the Dominican Republic, thank fuck. No extradition with the UK. So we set up shop in Playa Rincón.

And you know what? For all the shit I give my sister about her fucking normal-dream life, it wasn’t half bad.

Surfed, caught my own fish. Saved a puppy from being killed. Pretty thing, really. Rhodesian ridgeback born without a ridge. The breeder was going to off him so I said I’d take him. Didn’t have much else going on so I trained the shit out of him. Top-notch guard dog now, crazy ferocious, really protective of me — exactly what you want when you’re on the run.

Hardest part of the whole thing? Not knowing if Dais was okay.

I hate her, right? I do. But I’ve spent my whole life looking after her. My whole life was pointed towards keeping her alive, so it doesn’t matter — and fuck her for this — it doesn’t matter if she’s out because I can’t be. She’s my kid, even if she doesn’t want to be anymore. She still is.

But we had no contact — just me and Koa out there, him breaking the hearts of half the girls on the island, me house-breaking the fucking dog. I didn’t hear anything about my sister until Christian blew through, told me she was dating that cop.

I acted like it shitted me but actually I was a bit relieved. Without me or Christian there, her in the pursuit of that fucking normal life… I know Miguel still trails her, but it’s from more of a distance now. Tiller in her bed should have made me angry, made the betrayal of what she did so much worse, but honestly, I was just glad she was safe.

There’s a big story here, but the short version is me, Christian and Koa found the painting — in Rotterdam of all places. A minor hiccup along the way. But I got it. Handed it over to Interpol after arranging a deal to drop every charge against me and voila, I’m back in London. Handed it to Tiller, actually. He’s not Interpol, but I knew he’d get it to them. Hoped he’d get the message to my sister that I was back too, but I don’t know that he did. She didn’t come home to check on me. Not that I needed her to, didn’t even want her to, actually.

Anyway, first order of business was to run Ezra fucking Brown out of town, but I guess he heard I was on the way back and he fucked off pretty quick. Dipped off the map. Haven’t heard of him since, so there’s a pin in that.

Been home just about three months now, and it feels like it’s about time to replace something to do. I’ve laid low for a while now. I’m a bit bored.

God knows that Scotland Yard’s watching me still, but I don’t mind the challenge. Even if they catch me, there’s always another priceless painting that needs to be found. Come to think of it, I might even have a few in my basement…