That makes me blink. He is not one to be interested in any of my hockey games at all. “Uh—yeah. We won.”
Victor nods once. “Good. A man should be good at something that doesn’t get him killed.”
I don’t know if that’s meant as advice or warning. But a puck to the face at the right angle? I’m a goner.
He sets his pen down. “Now. About that little thing I asked you to look into.”
I freeze. My pulse kicks up a notch.
“You mean—?”
“The girl,” he says. “Ashford’s daughter.”
My throat dries out. “Yeah,” I say carefully. “I found her. She’s at the university. Keeps to herself, quiet.”
From the corner, Rico makes a low noise that might be a laugh. “Quiet, huh?” he says. “Didn’t seem that way last time.”
My head jerks toward him. He smirks, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from lunging.Last time—the kidnapping. The warehouse. The smell of duct tape and fear. Hereyes, wide and shining in the dark. She hadn’t kept her mouth shut even once.
Victor doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. “I told you she’d resurface,” he says. “Ashford’s been pulling strings from inside. Tried to get transferred. Had to remind him what a mistake that would be.”
I swallow. “You—reminded him.”
He waves a hand. “He’ll live. But he’s scared now, which means he’ll listen. Trouble is, he still owes me money. And rumor has it his little princess has a nice trust fund. Won’t cover all the money he and that bastard Marano leeched from me, but it’s a start.”
My heart stutters. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on her.” Victor pours another drink. “Find out her patterns, who she talks to, where she goes. We might need her sooner than later.”
“Got it,” I say, though my voice sounds hollow even to me.
He narrows his eyes. “Something wrong, boy?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Good.” He drinks, dismisses me with a flick of his hand. “Go on, then. You’ve got that game crap and your college girlfriend, don’t you?”
I don’t answer. If I stay a second longer, I’ll say or do something stupid.
Outside, the air feels thinner. I sit in my car, head spinning, heart hammering. Chloe’s name echoes in my skull, over and over.Keep an eye on her.The same words he used months ago. The ones that ended with duct tape and tears and the kind of guilt that never washed off.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
The Gatorade bottle in the passenger seat is warm. I drink half of it just to keep my hands busy. Then my phone buzzes—Jamie.
Jamie: Meet me at Sammie’s.
Me: falafels?
Jamie: Yeah and we can finally talk.
My stomach drops again.
Sammie’s is loud. Jamie’s already there, sitting in a booth near the back, hood pulled up, tapping at his phone.
He looks up when I sit down. “You look like shit.”
“Appreciate that,” I mutter, flagging down the waitress. “Two falafels. Extra sauce.”
