For a moment, I think Shiver’s gonna go along with it, but he doesn’t.
He shakes his head, “No. I’ll tell him I killed Bronco, but I won’t give him the reason.”
I’m frustrated, but I understand why he’s doing this.
All I can think about is Grace—eighteen years old and locked in her room, traumatized and alone.
Needing a break, I wash up in the clubhouse bathroom, scrubbing until the water runs clear.
When I come back out, Shiver's standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the second floor.
"I gotta call Dad," he says quietly. "Tell him what happened. He'll want to come back, see the scene."
"Yeah."
"And I..." He swallows hard. "I have a feeling this isn't gonna end well for me. Dad's gonna be furious his own son killed his VP. He's gonna ask questions."
He's right.
Phantom's going to be furious about losing Bronco, and Shiver's the one who was here.
Even with a damn good reason, there will be consequences.
Exile, most likely.
"Before I make that call," Shiver says, turning to look at me. "Will you check on her? Grace. She won't open the door for me anymore. But maybe she'll let you in."
"Yeah," I say, already heading for the stairs. "I'll check on her."
I take the steps two at a time, my heart hammering harder than it did when I heard the gunshot.
Grace's room is at the end of the hall—I know which one it is from the Sunday dinners I've attended here, from watching her disappear upstairs to take phone calls or escape the noise.
I stop outside her door and knock softly. "Grace? It's Shadow."
Silence.
"Shiver asked me to check on you." I keep my voice gentle. "I'm not gonna hurt you, darlin'. I just want to make sure you're okay."
More silence, then a sound that breaks my heart—a choked sob.
"I'mnotokay," comes her voice, muffled through the door. Small and broken and nothing like the confident girl who argued with her father about going to vet school just last month.
"I know." I lean my forehead against the door. "Can you let me in? Please?"
There's a long pause. Then I hear movement. The lock clicks.
The door opens a crack, and Grace peers out at me with red-rimmed eyes, mascara streaked down her face in black rivers.
She's changed clothes—wearing an oversized t-shirt now instead of whatever she had on before.
Her hair is wet, like she just showered. Trying to wash it away.
It doesn't work like that. I wish it did.
"Can I come in?" I ask.
She nods, stepping back to let me enter.
