The “officer” laughs. “You need our help with this tiny woman? Amateurs. Figure it out yourself. You hired us to get in. Murder costs extra.”
Murder? I try to make myself smaller in my little corner of the kitchen, shivering. The tile beneath my bare feet is freezing. My arms are pressed against the granite counter. Everything is cold except the burning pain in my face.
There has to be a way out of here. Either a door, or a really good weapon. Something I can wield with my hands tied behind my back.
“No, you gotta stay and finish this,” Crane says. “The only reason we came is to make sure you do it. The last guy fucked up.”
The last guy. My cousins are responsible for my other break-in. It wasn’t a random burglary. They were going to kill me.
“Look, just finish her off, because when she dies, we get the house and money.” Crane spits on the floor at my feet.
Has he lost his mind? That’s not how it works.
“Then we’ll use that money to pay you.” Derick nods, completely confident in this plan. “If we do it, they’ll know it was us because we’ll inherit everything.”
What the absolute fuck? I’m going to be murdered because not only are my cousins greedy, they’re really freaking stupid.
I try to talk through the gag—if I can get them to understand this will be bad for all of us, maybe I can stop things before they go too far.
But all I can do is make unintelligible, desperate noises.
Derick gives me a derisive look.
Crane grabs one of the knives from the block and hands it to the shorter cop. “We’re good for the money. Do it.”
21
SETH
Madison’s gate is open. Maybe the police have already arrived.
Damiano kills the headlights.
“Going in quiet,” I say.
He nods. “Just in case.”
Smart. We don’t know what the fuck we’re going to find when we get up there. I pray Madison’s okay. She has to be. Anything else is unacceptable.
The problem is, I’m no stranger to tragedy. Kyle’s motorcycle accident was unacceptable, and yet it still happened.
Life fucking sucks, and death sucks harder.
We go up the drive until we spot a police vehicle, strobe lights blinking. But something’s wrong with this picture.
“That’s no cop car.” My gut sinks.
Damiano curses in Italian. We get out of the car, easing the doors shut so they make no sound.
Madison’s front door is open. Faint light seeps out, probably coming from the kitchen. I start toward that side of the house, gesturing for Damiano to follow me.
As we approach the kitchen window, a man looms just below in the shadows, his back to us as he peers inside the house. Damiano and I exchange a look. Who the fuck is this?
He doesn’t hear us approach. Damiano goes to one side of him, I go to the other.
“Hey,” I whisper.
The guy turns to me, his eyes wide in surprise. I recognize his dark hair and weak chin—I saw him in Madison’s driveway a week or so ago. Damiano reaches around and grabs him by the mouth, cutting off any chance of the man shouting an alarm while Damiano yanks him back against his chest.
