Silence, broken only by the wind rattling dry leaves, and suddenly I know. She’s gone.
I don’t know where she is. I can’t find her. Mayneverfind her.
My knees nearly buckle under the weight of that thought.
Thomson’s voice is in my ear, high with alarm. “Carrson. We have serious trouble here.”
I raise my hand and press the earpiece closer. “What?”
“A limo just pulled up.” In a strangled voice, he says, “Oh mygod, Carrson.”
I’ve known Thomson since we were kids. We’ve bled beside each other. Buried bodies together. I’ve seen him stare down armed men twice our size without blinking.
I’ve never heard him sound like this.
Terrified.
Something is wrong. Monumentally. Earth shatteringly, wrong.
“What is it?” I demand. My heart claws its way into my throat. I’m desperate for his answer, worried it’s something about Laurel. I picture him telling me he found her and she’s dead. Her beautiful brown eyes lifeless, her body that I’ve held so many times now grown cold. That fire in her spirit, irrevocably snuffed out.
It nearly breaks me to think I’d never get to love her again, because that’s how I feel.
I love her.
It hits me how I love her with everything in me, in a way I didn’t think I was capable of, in a way I sure as hell don’t deserve.
I love Laurel Turner like a sinner clings to salvation, and if she’s gone there won’t be a soul left in me to save.
“We’resofucked,” he says in a strained whisper.
“Thomson,” I bark. “Tell me? What’s happening?”
Silence.
A single, shaky breath on the other end.
“Your father. He’s here.”
Chapter thirty-three
Laurel
My head hurts.
Not a dull ache. It throbs.
A sharp, rhythmic pulse like someone’s swinging a hammer inside my skull.
Opening my eyes takes herculean effort. When I manage it, my vision blurs. Clears. Blurs again. I blink, groggy, as my surroundings slowly come into focus.
I’m in a bus or maybe an RV. Not the kind tourists rent. The kind rock stars use. Custom-designed and lavish. Everything around me is draped in dark fabric. Plush. Theatrical. Black velvet cushions on the seat underneath me. I stroke my fingers over them, surprised at the softness, even more surprised to find myhands unbound. Black curtains cover every window so I can’t tell if it’s day or night. The only light comes from a small chandelier over the table in front of me. It’s made of crystals that sparkle and shimmer, swaying with each subtle jolt of motion.
We’re moving. I can feel it in the floor beneath me, vibration humming up through the seat, rattling my bones.
Where we’re going?I have no idea.
Across the table from me, sitting on a long bench seat identical to mine, are two men. One is Jackson, with his twin scars on his cheeks. When he sees me looking, he smirks and deliberately drags his tongue across his bottom lip, slow, suggestive, vile.
