Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Did Isabelle mean she saw Wyatt Hoxton? That’s impossible. I killed him. His blood has seeped through my clothes and into my skin. He is as dead as can be.
“What other woman?” the officer asks.
“And where is the vehicle that crashed into them?” I ask.
“We’re looking into that now, sir. You need to remove yourself from the scene.”
A few feet away, a woman is pointing in the direction of a road that leads out of town. I step closer to listen.
“He was a big guy. I saw that when he got out. He sped up to crash into them. I swear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Then he took the woman. He lifted her out and just—”
“What was he driving?” I cut in. “The woman, was she—”
“She was awake. She tried to get away, but he threw her into the trunk and took off.”
“Sir, this is a police investigation,” the officer starts.
“Which way did he go?”
She points out of town again. “It was a sedan, white. That’s all I know.”
“Ma’am, I’ll need to take some more information and sir, you need to leave.”
I look in the direction the woman pointed, and I see it then. One of her shoes. It’s lying in the street a few paces from the open door of the car.
I scoot under the police tape and grab it. The heel is broken. I stalk back to the Rolls Royce and pull the back door open.
On the floor of the car is her purse. I pick it up, open it. Inside is her phone and along with it, a flash drive. She had it with her all along.
“Sir this is an accident scene. You need to step away. Now.”
My phone rings just then. I nod to the officer and answer right away. “Blue?”
“Ezekiel? Robbie here. There’s something you should know.”
“Now’s not good. There’s been an accident.”
“What accident?”
“Isabelle and Blue… Blue’s missing.”
“Shit.”
Something in his tone worries me and I walk back toward Jericho’s car. The keys are still in the ignition, the driver’s side door still open. I start the engine.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I tell Robbie.
“Wait. If she’s missing, then I think I may know who has her.”
“What?”
“Wyatt Hoxton has a brother.”
3
BLUE
When I open my eyes, I’m lying on the bed. My arms are bound to each of the posts, as is one of my legs and Wyatt is wrapping a leather restraint around the other. I scream and kick, manage to get him in the nose.
“Ah fuck!” He stumbles backward, cups his nose. When he pulls his hand away, we both see the blood pouring from it. “Fuck you, cunt! I’ll make sure to break your nose while you can still feel it.”
He wipes the blood away with the back of his sleeve, gives a strange shake of his head then returns to bind my leg so I’m tied to the bed spread eagle. I test the bonds. Nothing gives. I didn’t think anything would.
“Let me go!” I can barely move a few inches if I twist my torso but I’m not going to make this easy for him.
He looks me over, grins as he meets my gaze. He’s bigger than I remember but the look in his eyes is the same. And that tattoo on his neck sends a chill down my spine.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He takes off his jacket calmly. It’s bloody from his nose and probably from my cuts. He hangs it on a coat rack standing in the corner. From inside the breast pocket, he takes out his phone, pushes a button and puts the phone to his ear. He mutters a curse a moment later.
“Bitch is at the cabin. Where the fuck are you? I will start without you, Brother.”
Brother?
He disconnects, returns to the bed. I scooch as far away as I can, which isn’t far. Wyatt sets the phone down on the nightstand and walks over to a table set along the far wall. It has a top that he lifts open. I can’t see what’s inside. A moment later, he reaches in, takes what he wants and turns back to me.
My heart drops to my stomach when I see what it is. A hunting knife.
“What do you want?” I scream, unable to keep the terror from my voice.
He grins, and when he reaches the bed, he sets one knee on it.
“Do you remember me?” he asks, looking me over, setting the flat of the blade against my cheek right where my scar is. I’m sure my makeup has smeared and it’s visible now. “Do you? Of course, I was prettier then. Didn’t have the clown’s mark.” He says this with disgust and a part of me wants to tell him he was never pretty, but the smarter part tells me to keep my mouth shut.