Matteo: Never mind. Don’t come here. We’ve been made. On the move. I’ll text you with more info once we’re at the next safehouse.
Then I grab his phone from the counter and snap a few pictures. Unconscious and dead look nearly the same.
Forcing myself not to tuck a blanket under Matteo’s head, not to trace the scar on his cheek like an apology, I start to search the house. There must be handcuffs or at least a rope somewhere in here.
At the threshold I look back. He’s sprawled on the rug, big and breakable in a way he never lets himself be. I hate him for making this hard. I hate myself for making it necessary.
Then I slip out into the hall, barefoot and quiet, and aim for the stairs. The second floor still smells like fresh paint and second chances. I don’t deserve either.
The phone vibrates in my palm as I reach a closet upstairs.
Donal: Last warning. If you’re not with me in an hour, I can’t protect anyone.
I touch the blossom once, the name that is a door I can’t open, then my fingers are jabbing the keys once more.
CHAPTER 26
THE GIRL FROM THE BEACH
Matteo
I come to with the taste of copper in my mouth and the kind of headache you can hear. It throbs across my temples in a steady pulse. Son of a bitch.
The room begins to coalesce, my eyes focusing. Ceiling. Cheap fan. Ah yes, the safehouse.
I try to sit up and learn something new: I’m tied up. That sneaky little… She attempted to seduce me, then knock me out? A tiny part of me is proud of her. Again. My wrists are bound behind the chair, my ankles to the legs, and something rough digs into my skin. Rope, not zip ties. Thoughtful.
“Kitty Cat,” I croak, and the room doesn’t answer.
There’s a folded scrap on the nightstand beside me, weighed down with my own damn phone. I twist until the chair creaks, catch the paper with my fingertips, and drag it to the edge. It flutters to the floor.
Damn it.
I tip the chair, stretch, and somehow manage to snag it between two knuckles.
Four lines, block letters. Her hand.
Matty,
I sent Tiernan a picture of you “dead.” It’ll buy us some time. Do not follow me. And for the love of all things, lie low for a little while for both our sakes.
—C
A laugh punches out of me and turns into a wince. Of course she did. She knocked me out and still found a way to keep me breathing.
I test the rope. She cinched it like a sailor so there’s no slack to free myself. Ankles first—always the leverage. I grind at the knot until the chair scrapes a half-inch. The buzzing behind my left eye spikes. I breathe through it and tip again, inch by ugly inch, until I can get enough momentum to crash the chair sideways without splitting my skull.
The impact knocks the wind out of me and loosens the hinge on the back right leg. Thank,Dio. I roll, curl my knees to my chest, and worm my feet under the chair rung. Ankles out, then hips, then I scoot like a lunatic inchworm toward the kitchenette.
Only for you, Cat.
The drawer I want is second from the left. I hook it with my heel, then yank. Silverware screams against the wood, and a paring knife skates to the lip. Perfect. I catch it with numb fingers and angle the blade backward. It takes forever, ropefraying strand by strand and my shoulders on fire, then the last fiber finally snaps and blood floods my hands as they come free.
I strip the rope from my ankles, sit against the cabinets, and wait for the room to stop blinking. Then I stumble back to the nightstand.
She didn’t take my phone. I’m not sure if that’s mercy or a dare.
My thumb shakes as I wake the screen. Leo’s last text sits under one unsent draft from me. He’s worried. The man is like the big brother I never had. I ignore both for now and open the tracker app.
