My blood runs cold, the names triggering a thunderstorm in my mind.
I squeeze harder, my vision going red.
“D!” Erik’s voice cuts through the fog. “We need him alive.”
I glare down at the bloodied mess that used to be a man, reveling in the rush of rage coursing through my veins. I don’tgive a shit if he’s gasping for his last breath; he deserves every fucking bit of it. He brought this on himself; this is what happens when you fuck with the wrong people.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t hear it.
All I hear is the pounding of my heart and the screaming in my head, begging me to do more, to finish him off.
45
Wren
“Fuck.” I slam my phone down after the twentieth failed call to John. The screen mocks me; no missed calls, no texts. Nothing.
I unfold the crumpled paper again, my eyes burning holes into the scrawled message:
“1408 RIVERSIDE DRIVE. 10 PM. COME ALONE IF YOU WANT TO SEE JOHN DAVIS AGAIN.”
My gut twists.
This has to be bullshit. Some sick prank.
But what if it’s not?
The diner’s bell jangles, and I shove the note into my pocket. Rosie steps out, squinting in the sun.
“Christ, Wren, you look like shit. What’s up?”
I clench my jaw, forcibly shifting my expression to a blank slate. “Everything’s just fucking dandy. A goddamn picnic,” I spit.
My chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, as if I’m trying to force the worry and fear down like a rat stuck in my throat.
“Bullshit,” Rosie snaps, not buying it. “Spill.”
A gust of wind whips my hair across my face. I use the moment to steady myself, shoving the panic down deep where it belongs.
“It’s nothing,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Just… family stuff.”
Rosie’s eyes narrow. “Your dad again?”
“John’s… being fucking John.”
Rosie glances at the customers waiting to be seated. She grabs a menu and gestures to an empty table.
“One second,” she tells them, then turns back to me. Her voice drops. “What’s really going on, Wren?”
I check my watch. 3:05 PM. Seven hours to figure out if this is real or just some fucked-up joke. I need to get home. Check on Em.
“Actually,” I say, letting a sliver of worry show, “any chance you could cover for me? Just for an hour or two? I gotta check on Em.”
Rosie’s face softens. “Shit, why didn’t you say so? Go. I’ve got you.”
“You’re a fucking saint, Rosie,” I say, already untying my apron. I duck into the back, snagging my bag from my locker.
Joe’s gruff voice stops me cold. “Where the hell you think you’re going, Davis?”
