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Gregory Sarris finally speaks, his voice harsh like the weapons he deals. “An assailant at large keeps the story alive, Edwin.”
“He’s right,” Liam adds. “The cleaner version is better. We handle the truth internally.”
The logic doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Asher had more decency than anyone in this room, which is a low bar, but one he cleared by miles. He’d put a bullet through our heads if he knew this was how we intended to bury his sister’s reputation.
Zaiya will be crushed.
“Well, I can’t fucking stop you, can I?”
Patrick grins like he won a fight. “I’m sure you can help your Aspirant adjust to life as a ghost.”
I close the gap between us before anyone can tell me not to.
My fist knots in his ugly red tie and jerks him forward hard enough to make his neck snap back.
“Talk about her again and you’ll be the next corpse we cover up.”
He chuckles and turns his head to the Council as if to say, This guy, right? I shove him back hard enough that he loses his balance and stumbles against his chair.
“So we’re done here,” I say, and turn for the door.
I’m done listening to this shit. If that tells them something about my potential to lead the Order, so be it.
“Mr. Crotavere.” Sarris stops me before I reach the handle.
My tongue smooths across my teeth as I drop the annoyance from my face before turning back around.
“Yes, Mr. Sarris?”
“We’re not done.” He folds his hands. “The Breaking is tomorrow night. We still need to discuss the details.”
Patrick sits obediently and looks back at me. I slog over to my seat and slump into it hard enough to rattle the table.
Making no effort to hide it, I take out my phone as they continue talking. I pull up Zaiya’s location. She was at the church all day. Now she’s almost back to the Bolton house.
This need to track every step she takes has gotten out of control. I’ve tried to keep my distance. But the truth is simple now.
The only place she’ll be safe is with me.
CHAPTER 30
ZAIYA
The playground is empty when I pass through it. Swings move in the breeze, chains creaking their lonely songs with an invisible passenger in the seat. The merry-go-round turns lazily, scraping as it goes with the memory of children riding with their fingers clenched tight.
The town feels too quiet, as if hidden eyes follow me from behind every window.
A crawling awareness prickles at the nape of my neck. It should be Edwin somewhere nearby, keeping watch over me as he always seems to, existing just beyond sight like a shadow. But after the way he left me, I find that hard to believe.
I don’t want to see him anyway.
What would I say?
I turn onto the Boltons’ street and notice the car.
It’s parked at the dead end, a black sedan with windows tinted past the point of seeing inside. It wouldn’t be unusual for a car like that to be at The Cirrus. But this far back into town? Every instinct in me goes on alert.
