“We Googled it,” Bridger says, stepping forward. “When Marlowe said it before. It’s one of those—what do you call them? Urban explorer places. A known spot. Local legend bullshit. You look up 'abandoned school near Somers Point Road' and it’s the first thing that pops up.”
My jaw locks. “Whendid he leave?”
“I don’t know,” Bridger snaps, raking a hand through his hair.
“Well, maybe we can still catch him. Maybe he’s right outside.”
“I fucking checked already.He’s not outside. He took my fucking keys and my Jeep and fucking left. We have to go now.”
The look he gives me guts me clean. It’s that same look from when we were kids—when Clay would drag Cody into the closet after beating him bloody, slam the door shut, and leave him locked in the dark for hours. We'd come home from school and sneak in with a towel to clean the piss and shit off Cody’s legs while he cried, shook, and told us he was fine. He was fucking five. Then we’d get beat for helping him. I nod once, jaw tight.
Then I turn to Marlowe. “Where is it?” I ask, and I already hate the way her face falls. I already feel the words she’s not saying.
I grab my phone, wake it up, and pull open the maps app. Her voice is soft but sure. “Scullville School. Egg Harbor Township. It’s off Somers Point Road.”
I start typing, throat burning, fingers flying across the screen. And when the pin drops onto that decaying little patch of forgotten hell, I feel the cold, sharp edge of inevitability settle in my bones.
Marlowe grabs my arm, her grip strong, eyes fierce and pleading. “Let’s call the police,” she says. “Right now. Tell them what’s happening—have them go there. They can stop this.”
“No,” I grind out, voice low, sharp. “Wecan’t.”
Her eyebrows pull together, confused and furious. “Why the hell not?”
“Because Cody’s got warrants out on him,” I snap. “And cops aren’t going to let us kill Clay—and that’s the only thing that’s going tostopall of this. We don’t want him arrested. We don’t want him to get taken in. We want him in theground.”
Her face twists. Not disagreement. Not even fear. Just heartbreak. And I can’t take it. I look straight into those eyes—thosedamnblue eyes that undo me every time—and everything in me cracks. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to go. But Ihaveto. “Remember what you promised me in there,” I say, my voice rough and thick. “You get on that plane, no matter what.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I didn’t promise you that, Damian.”
And my stomach drops. No—sinkslike I’ve been gutted. Not in some weak, trembling way. Not in a panic. In that deep, hard,finalway you feel when you already know how this ends. I cup the back of her head, fingers curling into her hair, and pull her close. Then I press my lips to her forehead, hold them there longer than I should, and breathe her in like it’s the last time. “Just get on that plane, Angel,” I whisper.
I let her go.
I fucking hate it, but I let her go.
Then I nod toward Bridger. “Let’s go.”
We fly down the stairs two at a time, boots slamming against wood, hearts hammering louder than our footsteps. The late morning sun is too bright, too cheerful, like it doesn’t know the world’s about to split wide open.
We climb into my SUV, slam the doors, and I start the engine with a roar. The tires squeal against the pavement as I tear out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
My phone sits in the console, barking directions. Turn right at the next light. I cut across two lanes and turn hard, tires screeching again. My jaw is locked so tight it aches.
“I don’t have my gun,” I say, voice low, bitter. “It was in the safe. In the fucking fire.”
Bridger doesn’t even flinch. Just stares out the windshield like he’s already playing out all the ways this can go wrong.
“Well, isn’t that our Cross luck,” he mutters. “Because neither do I. Cody took mine. Along with my goddamn Jeep.”
My gut twists.
So we’re going in blind.I shake my head once, tight and sharp. “So we’re going in unarmed.”
Bridger lets out a long breath—deep and bracing. “This is going to get up close and personal.”
Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know what this means. We’ve walked into hell before.
“Call Reese,” I say, eyes locked on the road. “Tell him to meet us there. I think where he’s staying is closer than we are. GPS says we’ll be there in twenty.”
