Page 24
“Brooks?” Cade called.
Brooks had returned to his laptop and was typing furiously, brows knitted together in concentration.
“Brooks!”
He blinked, then glanced over at Cade. “What?”
“Are you on board?”
Brooks returned his gaze to his screen and waved a hand. “Yeah, whatever you want. I’m done arguing about this.”
“Great. Now let’s—”
A loud thump sounded beyond the wall. Everyone froze.
Vincent looked at me and raised a brow. “That was—”
“Gotta go,” I said, heading to the door.
What the hell was she up to now?
NINE
What do you have to lose?
Nothing. Because I didn’t have anything anymore.
Once, I had a mother and a brother, but the things that had happened between now and then had muddied those memories. I’d been alone for so long that I couldn’t remember what it was like to have anyone.
I’d never forget the cost of having someone and losing them. Of letting someone into your life who had the power to destroy everything.
If there was one person I hated most in this world—living or dead—it was George. My mother’s last lover. The man who’d put me in a cage. The man who’d murdered my baby brother and my mom before shooting himself up with heroin laced with fentanyl. Back then, I hadn’t understood why stepping on that needle had almost killed me. I wished they’d just let me die there. I wished I could go back and never leave that apartment. I’d climb inside my brother’s crib and hold him one last time.
From the moment I’d woken up in a hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, I’d been dealing with a wound so deep I wasn’t sure it would ever heal. It would always be there, festering and rotting in the blackest parts of me. Pain helped drive away the worst of the chaos that invaded my bones. It was the only thing that helped me forget. I didn’t want the burden of all those ugly memories, and a part of me wished I could go back to before, when I didn’t know just how shitty life could be.
If all that was the cost of having someone precious, then I never wanted to have anyone again. It had changed me into a some kind of feral animal, always on the defensive, never trusting anyone.
Moving often helped with that. So did changing my name with every new town I stayed in.
And with each new name, I could forget that I was me. I didn’t even like my real name that much. And because I liked old movies, I just picked names from characters I’d seen.
For years I’d been running from one man only to be caught by another, and I wasn’t sure who was worse—Angelo Rossi or this psychotic asshole.
I wasn’t sure why I was just lying here, either. I’d fallen asleep at one point, too exhausted to try anything else and too depressed anyway. Wallowing, that’s what I was doing. But when the bright rays of sunlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains and I was still alone in the room, I decided to get the fuck out of here once and for all.
Bowing my head to my hands, I pulled a hair pin out and freed myself.
The first thing I did was run to the desk and snatch the letter opener I’d abandoned in order to carry the TV. Then I searched the entire room. Drawers in the desk, under the table, under the bed, drawers in the nightstand. The place was infuriatingly sparse, and there was mostly junk and useless garbage. The letter opener had been the only solid find.
I tried using it to remove the hinges again, but that didn’t work. I tried throwing the TV at the window, but it just bounced off and crashed to the floor.
Fucker. Had he planned this out? I didn’t believe for one second that he wanted me to help him. That he wanted to protect me. He was a thief and, most likely, a liar.
I waited for him to return, crouching next to the door. After what felt like hours had passed, there was the sound of metal scraping on metal, and then the door swung open. I shoved the letter opener into his thick thigh as hard as I could.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Before he could grab me, I crawled through his legs, pushed to my feet, and sprinted down a long balcony. It was the second floor of a motel, just like I’d thought.
