Prologue
Isqueezemyselfbehindthe double wall of the built-in closet, Rebel’s small body pressed against me. My breathing is shallow as I slap a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t speak,” I whisper to my little girl and slowly lower the hand. Please,pleasedon’t let them hear us. My heart races.
Heavy footsteps thump through the living room and Connor’s panicked voice sounds: “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The bastard’s reply is a faint murmur where I sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and put my hands over Rebel’s ears, hoping she doesn’t hear it. What do these people want from us?
“No, of course not. I don’t—” Connor’s voice is almost unrecognizable.
Adrenaline rushes through my body, and I strain to hear what’s happening. There’s a scuffle. “No, please—”
Someone or something slams into a surface, followed by the unmistakable sound of something breaking.
They’re just scaring him, right?
My heart pounds wildly in my throat as more sounds of struggling and choking travel over to us. With her eyes shut tightly, Rebel exhales deeply. Why do they have to scare him?
Then suddenly there’s silence.
Absolute silence.
Panic claws at my throat. No. Fuck. Where’s Connor? Why can’t I hear him?
The murmuring starts again, and once more, I strain my ears. His voice. I need to hear him. Please, let him say something. Anything.
He’s still alive, right? He has to be.
“So, that problem’s solved. He ain’t saying shit anymore. Search the house.”
No, no, no.I push Rebel against the wall behind me and shield her with my body. Please, don’t let them find us.
Tears slide down my cheeks. I bite my lip until I taste blood to keep my sobs at bay.
Is he really dead? He’s a fucking accountant! Why would you kill an accountant?
This kind of thing is exactly what I didn’t want for my seven-year-old. I never thought this would happen as long as I made sure my child had nothing to do with motorcycle gangs. This sort of thing would never happen as long as I chose Connor. And now…
That dirty bastard just killed my husband.
Footsteps echo through the house. I can barely hear them over the pounding in my ears. What am I going to do if they find us too? They can’t hurt my little girl. I’ll lose my mind.
The footsteps grow louder, and Rebel trembles behind me. A dull thump echoes, and I hold my breath. I glance over my shoulder at Rebel, and press my index finger to my lips, shivering, wishing she keeps quiet. She quickly nods and buries her face in her hands.
For a moment, there’s only silence, except for the creaking of a shelf and the opening of closet doors.
I squeeze my eyes shut, while holding my breath. My ears are still ringing. Someone approaches, and finally comes to a stop in front of the closet we’re hiding in.
Nothing but a wooden panel that acts as a double back wall is standing between us and death.
I pray to a god—whom I don’t even believe in—that Rebel will manage to remain quiet as a mouse for a little while longer. By now my back’s soaking wet, so I know she’s crying. I would give anything right now to take this memory away from my daughter. Clothes hangers clatter as they’re pushed aside. The sound of iron on iron grinds through my bones, and I swallow the bile that rises.
Suddenly, the sound stops, and the closet doors slam shut with a bang.
“Empty. That wifey of his must be out for groceries or something.”
I draw in a slow, shaky breath. The footsteps retreat, and then someone says, “There’s no one here, Boss.” The voice has a strong Southern accent. He’s clearly not from Roseville or Folsom.
