Emory bristled with an abrupt chill. Concern complicated his desire for her. No one deserved the Velascos’ indiscriminate brutality.
“They’ll do far worse,” he said with grim prediction. She’d sing a song, all right; one where death was a mercy and she begged for its kiss. “You’re feeding your best friend’s daughter to the wolves. If Cal finds out?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about Cal or his daughter!”
Blood dribbled from Rich’s nostril onto his dress shirt. He ripped free an elaborately folded pocket square and held it to his nose. Emory stood with a mirthless chuckle. That was low, even for Rich.
Jack shifted impatiently by the door. “What’s our play here, Em?”
Shit or get off the pot.Emory had come for answers. If they were tucked away in sweet Amelia Havick, so be it. His motivations were messy, but business wasn’t always done clean.
He holstered his gun and turned to his men. The lights flickered with a boom of thunder, the music momentarily killed.
“Get the girl.”
TWO
AMELIA
Two Weeks Earlier…
The first nettle stings the worst.
First heartbreak. First betrayal. First death.
Amelia Havick couldn’t say how often her mother had offered that saying as an antidote to life’s little let-downs.
Getting fired.
Amelia might soon add that to the list of formative firsts, but the prospect didn’t scare her like it should. Nothing—not even losing her job—could compare to the deep unease coursing through her. Her body stiffened and heart pounded like a drum as she white-knuckled the steering wheel.
What the fuck was he thinking?
Amelia glanced at the manila folder in her passenger seat and punched the gas. The sooner she off-loaded it, the better. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. It was a simple mistake she’d laugh about someday. She’d tell her friends over cocktails how she bolted out the door at midnight in an oversized t-shirt—no bra—and sleep shorts to deliver the folder to Burt, her scatterbrained boss.
The weight of it was wrong, though.
Simple mistakes didn’t deposit dread that sat in her stomach like a sack of bricks. And Burt was clear-headed and sharp despite his age.
Then how did this happen?
Fingers of moonlight silvered Lake Oswego as Amelia’s sedan raced along an empty road. A mile back, she had killed the radio to soak up the silence, all but the breeze whipping in from the open window. Amelia’s hand trembled as she swatted away tangled strands of hair. Honeyed by the summer sun, ribbons of gold had emerged amongst cinnamon red. It had grown long too and skimmed past her shoulders sun-kissed with a glow her mother called healthy.
Rain freshened the cool air, and the trees stood sentry as Amelia navigated the switchbacks. She breathed deep the scent of petrichor and crushed pine needles.
She wouldn’t miss much of Oregon, perhaps only these quiet nights. There was no comfort in it now, though. Sweat slicked her palms and she burned up despite the damp chill.
The folder should’ve had case law in it, a real snooze-fest. Leave it to an old man to hoard secrets in an unmarked folder tucked amongst other files for review. She wanted it gone just as badly as Burt wanted it back.
Another text pinged. The screen’s pale aura filled the darkness. Amelia glanced at her phone in the center console.
Almost here???
Triple question marks. Burt reserved those for only the direst circumstances. Amelia’s heart thrummed a frantic beat, and she sped the rest of the way.
Burt met her at the door. He must have seen her headlights cutting through the fine mist that enveloped his two-story estate. One of Portland’s most revered defense attorneys, he lived more modestly than most of his ilk, but his home still dazzled Amelia. She hurried up the brick steps, her flip-flops slapping the soles of her feet as she went.
Burt hushed her with a knobby finger pressed to his lips and ushered herinto his study. Lamp light pooled on the floor, but shadows consumed the edges of the room.
