I sit on the sofa while running my fingers through my hair. “That’s just it. I think the club knows something but isn’t telling me shit. I went to see Paxton yesterday and he said I’d screwed them over. Always causing trouble. But he didn’t say what kind of trouble.” Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. “Except for the fact that I always end up leaving Kyler a wreck.”
“What? Why did he bring up Kyler?”
Of course that’s what she responds to. “That’s not important right now, Teag. What kind of shit did I cause? And what did I screw them over with? Not that I did, but apparently Pax thinks I knew something and that I set them up on purpose. I’m worried.” I mumble the last sentence. “What if I really did endanger the club? What if someone dies because I—”
“Listen,” my best friend starts. “First of all, it started because Connor heard something, not you. Second, you didn’t ask anyone to help you. Thirdly, you’re not killing anyone. If someone does die, it will be through no fault of yours, but the fault of the person who, uh, commits the murder. Or because their heart gives out.” She chuckles weakly. “They could also just die of a heart attack, just like us.”
I sigh. “As if I didn’t know that. But it feels like it’s still me to blame if that happens. After all, I’m the one they’re after.” I get up and start pacing again. Sitting still isn’t an option.
“But they’ve decided to help you, Layne.”
I stop in front of the window that looks out at the front of the bar. “Maybe you’re right.” I exhale a deep sigh.
I still don‘t feel comfortable after ending the call. I’ve got a million things going through my head, but nothing makes sense. What did I miss? Something with Connor? It practically has tobe. I try to remember if he ever said anything, but I can’t recall noticing anything strange. No late nights, no other stories, just still interested in Rebel. Reading to his little girl every night. Nothing. I literally can’t think of anything. I haven’t even caught a glimpse of who killed him. Kyler mentioned the Knights, but I don’t know the club. Why would Connor have anything to do with a motorcycle club? He hated the fact that I was part of the Renegades when I was younger, that Dad was the former vice president.
My hands are balled into fists. I don’t understand why they want me. Or could it be about Rebel after all? Although those men didn’t say anything about her.
I exhale deeply. I got no idea who they are, what they do, or what Connor knows.Knew. Why would anyone kidnap me? To test me? I would’ve talked by now, though, wouldn’t I?
“Argh,” I exclaim in frustration, and my knees buckle.
If I’m really causing them nothing but problems and Paxton thinks I’ve screwed them over… I close my eyes. All I want is for everyone to be safe. I don’t care what Teagan says, I can’t have someone’s death on my conscience. The only problem is that if those men are targeting me, I can’t stay here because eventually someone will die because of me. And if I can’t stay here, Rebel can’t stay here either.
Where will I go?
Where will I be safe?
Where can I start over without them finding me?
The first place that comes to mind is Mexico, but that isn’t a good idea at all. Rebel must be able to go to school and get on with her life. If we go there, she’ll have fewer opportunities.
“London,” I say. “She knows the language. The schools are great. We can emigrate, but I need to get there as soon as possible.” An idea forms in my head and I open the browser on my phone and start looking for a cheap airline. We can’t flyunder our own names. Then that organization will find us in no time. At least, I assume it’s an organization.
I briefly close my eyes and then scroll to a phone number that Dad once gave me, but that I hoped I’d never have to dial. With my eyes closed, I think back to the day he gave it to me.
“It might come in handy someday,” he says to me.
Rolling my eyes, I laugh mockingly and say, “Why would I need a new identity? I’m a Turner.”
Now I’m standing here and I’m so glad Dad gave it to me. I slide my finger across the screen and call.
After two rings, a gravelly, low male voice answers: “Yeah. Hank.”
“Hi, this is Layne Hayes. Um, Turner.”
“Well, missy? Hayes or Turner?”
“Turner,” I decide. It’s better to use my maiden name. He knew my dad under that name.
“Don’t know ya, honey.”
“Wait,” I blurt, panic rising. “Not me, but you know Elias Turner.”
Silence.
“Don’t anymore,“ he grumbles. “Good day.”
“He was my father,” I squeak.
