And the window—Christ. The tiny bathroom window is cracked, glass fractured like she tried to fight her way out. Even her small frame would never have fit. She must’ve known that. Must’ve been desperate enough to try anyway. She knew they were here. She fought to get away.
My knees give out.
I collapse onto the cold tile, my hands shaking as I reach out. My fingers land in the still-wet smear of her blood. It coats me instantly—tacky, warm. Proof.
Proof that I wasn’t here. Proof that they touched her. Proof that I fucking failed.
My chest convulses and I fold in on myself, dragging my bloody hand over my face. The sob rips out of me before I can stop it, raw and animal, tearing my throat apart.
I don’t care that Adelaide is screaming. I don’t care that Constance is pounding her fists against my back. I don’t care that Haywood is lying dead downstairs.
All I see is red.
All I hear is her voice, her laugh, her whispers tangled in my sheets, her saying she loved me.
And now silence.
Silence and blood.
I curl into the mess of it, my hand still buried in the stain she left behind, and I fucking sob. Not just in sadness. No. With the fury of a thousand wars carried in one body.
Carter bursts in, three more of my men on his heels. His face is pale, eyes blown wide when he takes in the blood, the smashed mirror, the wreckage of me curled on the tile like a fucking child.
He mutters something inaudible —then he’s on me. A jug fromthe sink slams against my skin, icy water spilling down my head and soaking through my shirt. The shock rips the static out of me in one savage tear, dragging the world back into focus.
“Snap the fuck out of it!” Carter roars, grabbing my collar, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “This isn’t going to help her!”
And he’s right. God help me, he’s right.
My lungs claw for air, rage scorching through the grief. My body jerks upright before I even know I’m moving. My bloodied hand shoots out, finds Constance. I fist her collar, slam her back against the wall so hard the plaster cracks.
Her scream pierces the room, high and desperate.
“What the fuck happened?!” I bellow, the sound tearing out of my chest like it might rip me open. My grip on her tightens, too tight, and her small frame buckles under my hold. “TELL ME!”
Adelaide tries to drag me off, slapping at my arm, sobbing, “You’re hurting her! Stop—please!”
But I can’t stop. The need to know, tosee, to understand what they did to Summer shreds through me. Constance’s voice breaks as the words spill out in a torrent, every syllable a knife.
“They came—” She’s choking, gasping around my grip. “They came to our house. Forced their way in—three of them?—”
“Who?” My spit sprays her face, the snarl unrecognizable even to me.
“One was lanky—strong—he said his name was Vince. One was fat—rugged—Donnie. And then….” She whimpers. “Then there was Jackson.”
The name is gasoline on open flame. My knuckles dig into her shoulder blades as I shove her harder against the wall, fury pounding through me.
Her head jerks in a desperate nod. “He was… big—dark curly hair?—”
Images of him slam into me. His efforts to fight me off when I put him in cuffs. His smug face at the courthouse. Then I stop for a moment, and it hits me— his eyes. His features. He looked a lot like— Benny in a peculiar sort of way.
No. Surely not.
Adelaide’s voice cuts in, frantic, breaking. “Donnie and Vince—th-they came for us. We—we tried, Jacob. Wetried. But they were stronger.”
Constance’s body shakes in my grip as she blurts the rest, words tumbling over one another, a confession, an execution.
“They brought us here. We sat in the dark—watched you drive away. The second you were gone, they pulled in. We screamed—we fought—God, we fought. But Jackson….” Her voice cracks, dissolves into sobs— “He gave her a choice.”
