I dropped him off at the last pillar. That’s the one farthest out, the one drug addicts don’t use. That’s what he told me. I’msure I followed his instructions. I am sure. I can’t be that dumb. I’m not. Am I?
Oh God. I run a hand through my hair. The space under the pillar is lit more than the others, so I can see that there’s nobody there.
What the hell? Did he just wake up and walk away? Where did he go? Oh no. What if he asked me to drop him off so he could walk to the river and drown?
No. Do not catastrophize.
I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for him not being where he’s supposed to be. Like, for example, the person on the other end of the phone call I made picked him up. But this fast? They had to have been standing by and waiting just for this phone call. And they had to have been near the bridge.
Unless they dispatched units.
What units? He’s not SWAT.
If I circle under the bridge in the car, I’ll draw attention to myself, which I don’t want. I grab the bag from the back seat just in case I find him as I walk around. I’ll look for a few minutes, and then if I can’t find him, I’ll take the bag back to the apartment. If he wants it, he’ll know where he can get it. In addition, when he comes for the bag, I’ll also know he made it. So now if he doesn’t come back for the bag, I’ll know.
This is bad.
I’m a mess.
He told me to drive away.
I couldn’t follow simple instructions.
Airhead.
I walk to the riverbank. The bag is bulky, heavy, and awkward, and I can’t carry it for very long. A couple of men in jeans but no shirts crawl from the tents under the bridge. They’re looking right at me.
I’m done here.
I throw the bag into the car and drive home.
Chapter 11
Feels good to be home
Declan
Iawake surrounded by voices I recognize. A bright light illuminates the ceiling that belongs to a guest room in Widow’s Keep, the house I grew up in. It’s where my family lives. The only place on earth where I am safe.
Immediately, the stress I carried with me since Selnoa evaporates, and I sigh, relieved that I’m home. My head itches. I scratch at gauze and tap around with my fingertips. My head is wrapped.
“Uh-oh,” I comment to myself.
Or at least I thought it was to myself until my twin’s face pops into my line of vision and blocks the light above me.
Connor wags his eyebrows. “I paid a hooker to come and kiss you twice while you slept, my beauty.”
I roll my eyes. The simple movement hurts, and I wince as I sit up. Why am I still wearing my tactical pants? Where is my shirt? They probably cut it to get to the scratches and bruising I never tended to at Dina’s apartment.
My uncle Endo, a tall, wide-shouldered man wearing black pants and a button-up white shirt, walks into the room. He smiles when he sees me sitting up.
“How are you feeling?” He pats my shoulder.
“Not bad. What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
“I went under on Tuesday, didn’t I?”
