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As I shut the door, I catch a single glimpse of Cinnamon’s face.

The emotion warring across scares me.

It’s one I am all too familiar with.

Regret.

55

In a Pickle

Kale

“We’re lost. I told you we needed to head in the other direction,” I clip through my teeth, shoving my glasses up my slippery nose. We’re soaking wet too, the rain from before pounding down long enough to give me soggy shoes and soaked clothes.

Orzo grumbles beside me. “There’s a gas station up here. I’ll call Reuben.”

“Yeah, a gas station in a town that isn’t ours. Cinnamon could be anywhere at this point.” My lip and eye are aching, but I don’t care.

If that’s the entirety of Orzo’s ire, I will have to endure it.

He doesn’t even seem to know Cinnamon is who Reuben hired. Doesn’t know all the deaths were accidents.

Having the knowledge over him makes me smug. Amused.

Outside of the fact we are walking in the opposite direction of town, I went along with Orzo anyway. Choosing to stick by his side.

If anyone can help me find Cinnamon, it will be this asshole.

“So you and Cinnamon…”

“We met the night our parents died.” Orzo doesn’t look at me as he marches faster towards the gas station.

The confession brings everything full circle.

Except why was her mom even there? How did she get involved with the Barleys and Rouxs.

It’s the middle of the night and the closer we get to it, it’s easy to tell it’s closed.

“Now what?” I gripe.

We must have walked ten miles at this point if not more. It didn’t take long to realize Cinnamon wasn’t coming back.

In the distance behind us, there are headlights.

As they approach, I step off the shoulder to give them plenty of room, but Orzo does the opposite, launching himself into their path.

They swerve at the last minute, directly towards me, and I’m forced to dive further off the road to avoid the vehicle.

Getting to my feet, my heart gallops in my chest as the car comes to a stop.

And then they are throwing the door open.

“You ass—” The driver is a bulky man wearing a wifebeater, but Orzo doesn’t care.

He stomps to the man. “Give me your phone.”

“What do you—”