HARRISON
I draw a finger to my lips, indicating to Jack not to say a word. I inch over to a small inset closet next to where the door to Jack’s room opens, a tiny cubby I can spring out of once the King makes his entrance.
Another knock. “Hello?” a dull voice from the other side of the door calls out.
I pause. There’s something about the lilt of his voice that’s oddly familiar…
I point to the bed. “Lie down,” I mouth.
Jack raises an eyebrow, but then he seems to get it. He’ll play dead. He even tears a bit of the tart off so it looks like he took a bite out of it and lies back on the bed at a grotesque, unnatural angle.
A third knock, and then the jingling of keys.
He’s letting himself in.
My heart pounds, but I force myself to keep my breathing steady, my eyes trained on Jack, my legs ready to pounce once the opportune moment presents itself.
The lock disengages, and the door opens toward the closet I’m sitting in. The King enters. It’s the same man from the bus, still wearing the gray knitted cap over his head, along with dark-wash jeans and a tight-fitting black V-neck patterned with silver hearts. He walks toward the bed and then scoops Jack into his arms.
This is it.
I jump out of the closet, pounce onto the King’s back, and wrap my arm around his neck. He lets out a stifled grunt and drops Jack back onto the bed. Jack springs back to life and kicks the King in the gut, forcing him to bend forward.
The King shakes me off and lands a hook to my right cheek. I barely feel it, and I block a second punch before landing an uppercut under his chin. The King snarls and turns on me, his face red as he wraps his fingers around my throat, cutting off my air supply. I struggle to get out of his grasp, but I can’t.
Jack, however, sweeps his leg under the King’s feet, bringing his knees to the unforgiving tile floor of the hotel room. He loosens his grip on my neck just enough for me to shake loose and force his hands away from me. I pin them to the ground.
And—
What the fuck?
A scar.
A fucking scar on the palm of the King’s left hand.
A scar in the shape of an X.
I have one just like it on my own left hand.
It… It can’t be.
The King’s head bangs against the floor and he loses the gray knitted cap, revealing his medium-length dark hair.
The same way he wore it when we were kids.
There are a few slivers of gray tracing through it now, but there’s no mistaking his signature aesthetic—the half-dozen or so tufts of electric-green highlights popping out of his dark curls.
The King of Hearts is an old friend of mine. A friend who once forced me to torture and emasculate an innocent man in the name of exacting revenge on my middle-school bully.
Ray Sinclair.
29
BIANCA
I’m blazing down the highway, going nearly ninety miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic like a madwoman.
Thank God no cops are out tonight.
