EVE SILVER
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wasn’t splattered with Marin’s blood. Good to go. Not
a drop.
Opening the door just enough to reach the kid without offering her a view of the carnage on the bed, Roxy
summoned what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
Dana was still singing, so low it was more breath than
melody. She stopped and looked up, her fingers tightening around Flopsy.
“We’re outta here.” Roxy pulled away the musty
blanket, wrapped Dana in the jacket and lifted her from
the floor. She was stiff and awkward, clearly traumatized. Pressing the kid’s head against her chest, Roxy
shielded her view as they left the room. She hoped the
headphones blocked the sound of Marin’s babbling
pleas.
Reaching behind her, she jerked the front door shut.
Marin howled.
With Dana clinging to her like a monkey, Roxy
hauled out a prepaid, disposable cell phone and dialed
911. Not out of the goodness of her heart. That organ
was as shriveled and black as coal. She did it because
she wanted Marin alive and scared enough to shit himself. The first thing he’d do was run back to whoever was
pulling the strings. And Roxy could find him if she
wanted.
Balancing the kid on her hip, she gave the motel’s
address and Marin’s room number as she headed to the
rented convertible Corvette parked at the far end of the
lot. Ignoring the instruction to stay on the line, she
ended the call.
“Your mom’s waiting for you in Oklahoma City,”
she said, after turning off the iPod and buckling Dana
