“That’s right. Hate me. It suits you,” she said with a sneer. “Trash like you deserves nothing better than to rot in hatred. Remember this well—you killed your father. If you hadn’t offended me, if you hadn’t stolen my man, Willard would never have agreed to let the doctor I bribed operate on him.”
She leaned forward again, her eyes glittering with twisted delight. “But don’t be too sad. Your father’s death wasn’t actually that painful.”
Her tone dropped to a whisper as she elaborated, “I made sure to tell Dr. Safman to use less anesthesia. That way, the ‘success rate’ would be higher. You know what that means, right? Your dear dad was fully conscious on the operating table.”
“Can you picture it?” she went on softly, savoring each word. “He could feel the scalpel slicing into his chest, cutting through skin and muscle, touching his organs… Poor thing—his eyes must’ve been wide open, bloodshot, his whole body shaking in agony. But he was strapped down, couldn’t even move.”
Kendra watched as Daisie began to tremble uncontrollably. The former reached out and patted the latter’s shoulder in mock sympathy.