Stop fucking around or you and the girls will end up in a ditch no one will ever find.
I held Daisy in my arms as they said it. When they left, she made the decision for the three of us. We never spoke about it again—but I couldn’t let it go.
It took longer than I wanted. These bastards are well protected, hidden behind layers of money and power, but now I got one.
Henry Lane is rotting in a hole with his testicles sewn into his eye sockets. I even named it.The Shame Socket.Has a ring to it!
Camden Wolfe is next. He’ll be harder to reach, but not impossible. They’ll all fall. One by one.
I lay back in bed, towel clinging to my damp skin, and stare at the ceiling. I start counting the cracks in the paint—one, two, three—letting the numbers slow my pulse.
“I killed a man,” I whisper as my eyes begin to shut.
Where the fuck is it?
I’m tearing through the drawer, flingingutensils across the counter, like the knife might magically appear under a spoon. I can’t find it! My fucking knife!
Panic swells in my throat. I grab the bathroom trash bag, rip it open, tossing towels, tampons, nail scissors, everything but what I need.
Shit. Shit.
Did I leave it there?
Did I seriously walk out and forget the one thing that ties me to Henry Lane’s body?
I dress in a rush and drive straight to the hideout by the docks to get the busted Ford that only starts on the second try, and I gun it down the road.
The cabin is quiet and clean. Fuck, I’m good at this cleaning blood thing, but there is no goddamn knife.
I start breathing faster, my attempts to slow it down fall short. Maybe I left it outside. Maybe it fell while I was dragging the body. Maybe… I bolt to the grave and drop to my knees. The dirt looks untouched, and I search the surrounding ground, shifting leaves, moving stones.
Nothing.
Did it fall in the grave with him? Maybe it slid in while I was covering the body, and I just didn’t see. That would be lucky. That would be smart.
The knife didn’t have prints, only his blood, I think. No one could trace it back to me. I bought it with cashfrom a shady roadside stand that probably doesn’t even exist anymore.
Still…
A crack behind me makes me jump, and my breath catches, heart punching into my ribs as I whirl around. “Hello?”
Silence.
Just the whisper of wind in the trees, the soft chirp of birds nesting in the branches above, but I swear I heard something. A branch cracking under weight.
I stay frozen for a second too long.
Nothing.
I let out a slow, shaking breath and rub a hand down my face. So this is what being a criminal feels like? Constantly on edge? Waiting for the worst?
Shit.
Driving home, I grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers cramp; my knuckles are white, tendons tight, and my foot is heavy on the gas.
Calm down. Breathe.
Chamomile tea! That’s what my aunt always made when things got too loud in my head. She’d put the kettle on, tuck a blanket around my shoulders, and sit with me until I stopped shaking; she was everything my parents weren’t.
