“Get the fuck away from her, you fuckin'—”
The pipe rises.
“Erin!”
Itcomes down.
I wake gasping, pain lancing through my skull. For a second, I don't know if I got hit or she did. If I'm awake or asleep.
The room's wrong. Dark. Quiet.
But it all comes crashing back. The fight a few days ago. The attack. Home.
Erin.
The tribute.
Betrayal.
I try to sit up, and my body screams in protest. Everything fuckin' hurts. But I force myself upright anyway, breathing hard, sweat soaking through the tee that somebody put on me.
There's light coming from under the door, voices low and urgent.
What time is it?
I find my phone plugged in on the nightstand. It’s nearly midnight.
And there's a text waiting… from an unknown number.
Twenty-four hours. You know what happens if you don't pay.
The tribute’s due tomorrow night, and I still don't know who the fuck's demanding it.
But I know one thing: Whoever sent that big bastard with the pipe made the biggest mistake of their fuckin' life—because Cavin McCarthy doesn't play.
And I'm done fuckin' paying tribute.
I'm ready tocollectit.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Erin
The kitchen smellslike coffee and something burnt—maybe the toast sitting in front of Bronwyn that she's been staring at for the past five minutes without touching. It feels somber in here, like a funeral. I'm exhausted and haven't slept in days.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Cavin on the floor, blood pooling around his head, and that massive bastard with the pipe raising it for another swing. My hands won't stop shaking.
I force myself to think through the variables again. The timing of the attack, the placement of his injuries…the fact that they left him alive. This wasn’t random. Someone wanted to send a message, and they wanted Cavin conscious enough to receive it.
“Erin, love, you need to eat something,” Kyla says softly, pushing a plate toward me.
She's not the sensitive sort, but all of us have been affected by this beating. She's got dark circles under her eyes too—maybe none of ushave slept. Caitlin busies herself by the kettle, switching it on, waiting for it to boil.
“Cup of tea,” she says to all of us. We nod quietly.
But when she pours it, she slips and burns herself. She curses and runs her finger under the tap.
Don't think I've ever heard Caitlin McCarthy curse in my life.
