“Later.” She meets his eyes, then mine, her hands dropping away from Kai’s face. “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
“Come on,” I say to Kai. “Help me get him in the trunk.”
He moves robotically, trying not to look as we carry the body back to the Land Rover. As soon as we’ve dumped him inside, Haven arrives.
“I’m going to drop you two off at the nearest gas station. You call an Uber from there and get back home. I’ll take care of?—“
“No. This is…this is my mess.” She wraps her arms around herself, shivering in the cold.
I don’t argue. There’s iron determination in her voice, and arguing is just going to put us at the scene of the crime that much longer. “Fine. Kai, you take an Uber?—”
“Like hell,” he mutters, sounding a hell of a lot less sure than Haven. But I was idiotic for even suggesting it, because he will not leave her side. Not tonight.
“Fine. Then buckle in, because we’re going to be driving for a while to find a spot for?—“
“I know a place.”
We both turn to look at Haven, but only Kai manages a weak, “How?—”
She tightens her arms, shrugging nonchalantly. To a casual observer, it might seem that she’s still in shock.
But when her eyes lock with mine and a wry smile touches her mouth, I know she’s fully present. A hundred percent cognizant.
And completely sincere when she says, “Trust me on this.”
Chapter 38
Kai
I don’t remember getting into Rooke’s back seat.
Don’t remember the drive out of Ashwood Crossing or the forty minutes of darkness that followed.
One moment I’m watching our professor carve a man open like a fucking jack-o’-lantern. The next I’m here, in the back of his Land Rover, with blood on my hands.
I keep staring at the dark crescents under my nails. At the rust-colored stains in the creases of my knuckles. I carried a body tonight and shoved it into the trunk like a carcass.
I should be panicking.
I should be screaming, or crying, or calling 911.
Instead, I’m just sitting here, watching the streetlights blur past, and feeling absolutely fucking nothing.
“Take the next exit,” Haven says from the passenger seat. “Then left at the light.”
Her voice is eerily calm.
Rooke follows her directions without comment. His hands are clean—he wiped them on some wet wipes from the trunk before we left—but in my mind, they’re still drenched in blood.
When I close my eyes, I can still see the way the knife rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. The mugger’s face when the blade went in. The wet, sucking sound as Rooke pulled it out. How the man’s body jerked with each thrust until eventually it went still.
My eyes snap open.
“How you holding up back there?” Rooke asks. I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. The small frown between his brows could be curiosity or concern, because who the fuck knows with him?
“Okay,” I manage.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, then returns his attention to the road.
