Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Great,” she says with a sigh. “Doesn’t seem all that helpful, you know.”
“It’s a step in the right direction.” I tug her along and we head down to the end of the driveway. “Sheila will get in touch again. I have faith.”
“Unfortunately, your faith doesn’t reassure me. If we could just—” Before she can finish, a big black truck parked nearby pulls out from the curb and starts driving. It peels out, going fast, and burns down the street and away from us. I watch it go, a strange sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Strange,” I say.
Sara gently extracts her arm from my grip. “Very,” she agrees.
“What are the chances that truck just happened to take off the second we leave that house?”
“Slimmer than I like.”
I grunt in reply and stare down after the truck.
I can’t say who was driving that thing for sure, but an ugly feeling is lodged in my chest. I keep thinking someone’s watching us, someone that knows the truth of what happened to those cartel guys, and I keep waiting for them to make their move. I can’t say that was it—but I also can’t say it wasn’t.
“Let’s go before they decide to come back,” I say and head to the car.
“Take me to the office, please,” Sara says. “I have more work to do.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Alone.” She sinks into the passenger side seat.
I smile at her through the window then glance back at the house.
Sheila knows something. I can feel it in my bones. That woman saw or heard something but she’s too afraid to say anything about it, and hell, I can’t blame her. Whoever killed five well-armed cartel members isn’t the kind of person you want to mess around with.
But that means she’s in danger, and I don’t know how to keep her safe.
Sara’s my priority. As much as I want to help everyone, I have to accept my limitations and hope that whoever did those cartel guys in won’t go around murdering witnesses just to keep them silent.
Which might be wishful thinking.
Chapter 8
Sara
I spend the day in the otherwise empty office going over my notes again and again. For all his arrogance and bragging, Angelo wasn’t able to get anything useful out of Sheila, except for a small piece of the timeline. It helps, but it doesn’t change anything.
What pisses me off more is the way Angelo acts like he has a monopoly on pain, like just because my father was a surgeon I somehow didn’t have any problems. He walks around acting like he knows me better than I know myself and it drives me absolutely crazy.
He’s the kind of person that loves to talk about how nobody can judge him while spending all his time judging others.
But he doesn’t know me, not even a little bit. We slept together one time and that’s it. He can say whatever he wants, tell himself that he knows something about me just because I want to Blackwoods College and got a law degree, but I know the truth. I know what my life was like before he ever showed up.
I’m stewing as I call a car and head back to my apartment. It’s after seven at night and I’m looking forward to curling up on the couch, eating leftovers, and going to bed early so I can be up before the sunrise to start this whole process over again. Every day, day in and day out, working and working until I either find something or kill myself trying.
Something is off the moment I reach my hall. It’s a smell, faint at first, but stronger as I get closer to my door. Like smoke, but more acidic, sharper, like melted metal. I’m on edge as I reach out for the knob—
But the doorknob is missing, and the door’s standing slightly ajar.
It looks like someone cut it clear off. That must be what I’m smelling. Metal dust and wood shavings. I want to turn and run but morbid curiosity makes me push it open and step into my own small living room. “Hello?” I say but it comes out strangled and soft. “Hello?” I say again louder but there’s no answer.
The apartment’s empty.
And it’s a total wreck.
It’s hard to process something so bizarre. The couch cushions are slashed. The kitchen cabinets are all opened and my plates and glasses are in a pile of shards on the floor. The refrigerator door is open, the food tossed out on the counter and in the sink. The paintings and prints I hung on the walls are ripped down, the glass broken.
My bedroom’s the same. The more I stand in there and look around, the sicker I become. My clothes are torn out from the closet and thrown on the floor. My bed is ripped to pieces like someone took a knife to the comforter and the mattress. My clock is broken, my makeup is scattered, the water glass I keep beside my bed is shattered.