CROSS
THREE MONTHS LATER
“This is probably a little sick,”Tyler says.
I roll my eyes. “I gave you the option to bow out.”
“You said, ‘Don’t make me do this alone. I’ll probably fuck it up.’ And then you gave me fucking puppy dog eyes.”
“Andthen,I said, ‘But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.’”
“Who could resist that half-hearted offer?” He sighs. “It’s fine. We’re here. Let’s just do this.”
I look down at the crowbar across my lap then back at the house. It’s dark. The whole street is silent at this time of night. We saw him enter almost an hour ago, and the lights in the upstairs window went out.
“So, we’re sticking to the plan, right?”
I nod firmly. “Of course.”
“No seeing red and going off track…”
“Would I do that?”
He snorts. “You’re insufferable.”
He gets out of the car and heads up the walkway. He seems so chill that I don’t think anyone would suspect we’re up to no good–if anyone is awake to peek out their windows, anyway. He looks around the porch, crouches to peek under the mat, thenexpands his search. He finds a fake rock–I’m assuming–and holds something up.
I get out of the car, stride across the street, and join him on the porch.
He lets us into the house, and we both click on our flashlights. We make quick work scouring the first floor for signs of life then head upstairs.
From the bedroom comes loud snoring. The sort that probably would require medical intervention. I adjust my grip on the crowbar and approach the bed. Tyler shines his light on it, illuminating the sleeping pube face. And the light catches his eyes flying open a split second before I bring the crowbar down on his stomach.
He doubles up, and I hit him again for the hell of it. While he’s wheezing, Tyler and I grab him and throw him onto the floor. I grab his wrists, yanking them to the small of his back.
“Tape?” I grunt.
Tyler kneels down and winds duct tape around his wrists. By the time he blinks away the delirium of sleep, he’s bound, and we’re out of kicking range.
“What thefuck?” he roars.
I motion to Tyler, who flicks on the overhead light. The dick-for-brains cranes his head around and gets a glimpse of me, and his mouth gapes open. Closed. Open. Like a fish out of water. He kind of flops around like one too.
The bedroom is pretty sparse. There’s a dresser, the bed, and a closet. Nightstands on either side. His sheets are black–ew–and there’s the faintest smell of sour sweat in the air.
“Maybe you should open a window once in a while,” I comment. My nose wrinkles. “Or wash your sheets.”
“Focus,” Tyler admonishes.
“Can you find us a chair?”
My best friend eyes me. I hold up my hands in surrender until he’s out of the room, then I crouch down and grab Nicholas Thomson by the hair. I wrench his head back until he meets my eyes.
“Do you know why we’re here?”
“F-for the money?” He struggles, but he has no leverage. “Some sick prank?”
“For Scarlett,” I say softly. “I’m your fucking reckoning.”
