“Who is it, Haven?” Rooke asks, moving the flashlight so it’s between the three of us, pointing at the fresh grave instead of the grisly scene I unearthed.
She doesn’t answer. Her hands cover her face like she’s playing hide-and-seek but forgot to start counting.
“Who is it, girl?” Rooke asks calmly.
“L-Lenny. It’s Lenny. M-My uncle.” She makes a sound that might have been a giggle. “Was. ItwasLenny.”
I stare at her.
Rooke has gone quiet, the shovel hanging loose in his grip.
“Lenny?” I manage. “You…you killed Lenny?”
Haven’s eyes flicker to me, shining wetly in the flashlight. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Rooke flinches, his shovel dropping from his fingers. But he says nothing—just uses that hand to wipe at his forehead like he’s clearing away sweat.
“He was going to—” Tears spill down her cheeks, glittering against her pale skin. “He—he would’ve—I didn’t have achoice! I didn’t?—“
Her whole body shakes as she starts sobbing.
I should go to her. But I can’t move.
I just keep looking at the arm lying on the dirt, thinking about the Haven I met when we were so fucking young, realizing I never knew her at all.
“Tell us what happened.” Rooke’s voice is hoarse. When I glance over at him, he’s looking down at the fresh grave with unfocused eyes.
He looks more disturbed now than he did when he slammed that knife into the dead guy’s guts.
When Haven says nothing, he flicks the flashlight onto Haven’s squirming face.
“Now, girl.” His voice is cold and hard.
She starts talking, and I suddenly wish she’d just stayed silent.
“It was a few months before college,” she says, her voice trembling but growing stronger with every word. “Lenny made me drive him to the underpass to score. He still owed the dealer money from the last time, and instead of paying…”
She stops, her gaze drifting to the bundled corpse waiting for its shallow grave.
The dealer.
The one who claimed Haven hit him with her car.
“Instead of paying…?” Rooke prompts.
Haven lifts her chin, her voice dropping low. “Lenny told him he could fuck me.”
Chapter 39
Haven
The underpass looms ahead—a gaping maw of concrete teeth and shadows swallowing the road.
“Here,” Lenny rasps, scratching at his neck as he points to the trash-littered sidewalk up ahead.
I ease Dad’s junker to a stop, my hands numb from how I’m gripping the steering wheel. The weak, amber headlights illuminate a narrow strip of cracked tar, a handful of dilapidated tents, and a rusted shopping cart leaning drunkenly over the lip of the sidewalk.
My stomach drops when I spot the dark shape of a man leaning against one of the concrete pillars under the bridge.
