Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
How I wish he would slam it! Show who he truly is.
A day passes.
Another.
Until my father enters my room.
“Daniela.” His voice is fond, which means it’s dangerous. “Feeling better, mija?”
I arrange my face into the good daughter. “Yes.”
“Good.” He gestures. “Come with me, please.”
I secure my robe around me and follow him out of my room, down the spiral staircase, through a hallway, and into his private office.
“What the…?” I let my jaw drop as I take in the line of young girls.
Five of them, all standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the bay window in my father’s office.
They can’t be older than thirteen. Maybe twelve. Their dresses are childish. Not in the sweet way of girls who still love the twirl of a skirt. More like what you might dress a doll in.
For show. Strictly for show. Displaying a caricature of youth.
White socks. Patent leather shoes.
All very pretty, hair glossy and black and dressed with bright colored ribbons. Except for one. She’s blond and pale and she looks slightly older, with breasts beginning to develop. Her hair is twisted into a long braid.
My heart pounds in my ears.
These girls are beautiful in the way girls are when they’re on the verge of womanhood. Eyes too big. Knees knobby. Hands folded because someone told them to fold them.
One of them looks at me with a spark I recognize from poor stray dogs who have learned what a kicked rib feels like. Another stares at the carpet like if she doesn’t move maybe she’ll disappear. It’s a feeling I’m far too familiar with.
My father clasps his hands behind his back and smiles.
“Choose,” he says.
My mouth is dry. “Excuse me?”
He nods to the row. “Pick one.”
I look at him, at the girls, back at him again. I open my mouth. No sound. I swallow hard enough to hurt and try again.
“Pick one?” I repeat, because I’m still not sure what’s going on. “For what?”
15
HAWK
I stare at the text message glowing against the dark truck interior.
Are you alone?
I exhale through my nose.
The smart move would be to stall. Lie, maybe. But if I tell him I’m not alone, he’ll delay, and I’ll just spend the next twelve hours waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d rather rip the damned bandage off.
I reply.
Yeah, I’m alone.
The reply comes instantly. GPS coordinates.
I blink at it, jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I copy the message, drop it into the maps app. The blue pin lands on a rectangle near the northern boundary of the Bellamy property.
I frown and text back.
Where the hell is that supposed to be?
The dots flash.
Put it in your maps. You’ll see.
Already did. Didn’t the dumbass know that’s the first thing I’d do?
What’s there?
This time his answer comes slower.
A favor. Burn the building that’s there to the ground.
My mouth goes dry.
I reread the line twice, hoping it changes. It doesn’t.
I grip the steering wheel hard. “You want me to what?” I say out loud.
I text him back.
Why the hell do you care if some old building’s still standing?
His response is smug.
Because you agreed to one favor. No questions, and no one gets hurt. Those were your terms.
My stomach twists. He’s right. Those were my terms. One favor, no questions, and he wipes my blood off his safe and my prints off his floor.
It sounded easier when I thought the favor would be something simple. A delivery. A phone call. A warning.
Not this.
Not something that smells like family business. God, my father must have his dirty hands all over this.
I send another text.
How can I be sure no one will get hurt?
He replies instantly.
No one will. That building’s empty. But you’ll light it up and send me a photo of the ashes. Then we’re even.
Even? I scoff. Right. There’s no even with criminals like Reyes.
How do I know you’ll keep your word?
You don’t. But you don’t have any other choice.
The phone screen glares white, too bright, and for a second I see my father’s study instead of my truck. Leather and bourbon and the smell of gunpowder that never quite left the air after that night. I hear all the ways he tried to defend his choice.
I did what I had to do, Hawk. There was no other choice.
That phrase again, circling back after fifteen years to sink its teeth in me.
No other choice.
Back then, I thought Austin Bellamy was the villain and I was the cure. He killed an unarmed man, and I swore I’d spend my life undoing that stain.
But now? I’m not so sure the lines are that clean.
I unlock the glove box and stare at the paperwork tucked inside—registration, insurance, a folded map of the property from when we were kids. I pull the map out, spread it across the console, and trace the boundaries with my finger. There it is, in the north field by the old irrigation ditch. An old, weathered barn that’s barely standing.