Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
To Hawk—I love you, but fuck you.
I square my shoulders.
This may not end well for me.
But it will end well for Belinda. And that’s all that matters.
43
HAWK
I’m at Eagle’s bedside. He’s in and out of sleep, until he opens his eyes wide and stares at me.
“You’re still here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He sighs. “You don’t believe me.”
“About what?”
“About the overdose. That I was injected.” He swallows, winces. “But I swear, Hawk. I know my limits. I’ve never OD’d. Not once. I don’t play with death. I play with the edge.” A bitter smile. “I step back before I fall.”
“Easy,” I say.
He keeps going, the words tripping now. “Whoever did this wanted me gone. Wanted you distracted. Wanted me quiet.”
“Eagle…”
“I didn’t relapse,” he snaps, too loud. The alarm chirps. “I don’t want to fucking die.”
The beeping spikes. The door swings open and a nurse enters. “Mr. Bellamy, you need to breathe.” She checks the monitor, checks his IV. “Your heart rate’s climbing.”
“I’m fine,” he lies.
She slides a syringe into the port. “This will help you rest.”
He tries to yank away.
I catch his forearm. “Hey. Hey.” My voice is a rasp. “Don’t fight it.”
He drags his gaze back to me. The edges of his pupils blur. “Listen,” he says. “I’ve got tolerance.”
The nurse glances at me.
I don’t look away from him. “I believe you.”
He nods once, heavy, as the sedative crawls up his veins. “Outside your door,” he whispers. “The night I…went down.” His lashes flutter. “Somebody didn’t want me telling you what I found out about Dad…”
Everything inside me goes still. “What about Dad?”
“Dad and…” His tongue trips. “D—D—D…” The syllables stumble, break apart. His eyes roll, slow as tide. He tries again. “D—”
The last consonant dies on his lips. His mouth softens. The sedative wins.
I turn to the nurse. “Is he okay?”
The nurse is already smoothing the line, already changing the monitor range. “He’s fine,” she says. “He needs sleep. His body’s been through a lot. He’ll likely be out the rest of the night.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “You can come back in the morning.”
“Yeah,” I say, though morning feels a lifetime away. “I’ll do that.”
Falcon watches me from the door.
“I’ve got something to attend to,” I tell him.
“Reyes.”
I nod.
The hallway feels too bright.
I take the elevator down, grab my car from the valet.
The night outside feels wrong, air thick and wet. I drive with my knuckles raw from earlier, the bandage already spotted through.
The drive is slow and dark, but I finally make it.
The old barn crouches on the edge of our land. No lights. No sounds but crickets.
I kill the engine and listen. Nothing. Good. I want quiet.
Gravel crunches under my boots. The barn door gives with a long, complaining groan.
My eyes adjust quickly.
The chair.
My skin crawls with tiny invisible feet.
What the fuck?
The chair waits where I left it.
Empty.
For a second my brain refuses to believe what my eyes are seeing. The shape is wrong. That’s all. Reyes is slumped. Head down. I step closer.
The rope is cut. The rag I used to gag him in a heap on the ground.
I go cold and hot at once.
“Reyes,” I say into the dark.
Silence answers.
I cross to the stool where I left the plate. The fork sits on top and the plate is licked clean. He ate every bite.
Something glints at the base of the post. I crouch. A sliver of metal.
Fuck. It’s half a hacksaw blade. Where the hell did he get that?
I follow the scrape marks to the side door. Outside, weeds bend in two lines to the service path. Not footsteps. Knees. He crawled, or someone dragged him. The tracks vanish in the gravel.
My skin prickles.
I scan the rafters. The beams.
Nothing.
Motherfucker.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. No bars. I step toward the big doors. One bar. Then none.
He was tied. He was gagged. He was mine. And now he’s air.
Eagle’s voice punches through my head, slurred and stubborn. Outside your door. Didn’t want me telling you what I found about Dad… D-D-D…
Dad and what. Dad and who. Dad and D.
The barn tilts.
If Reyes is out, he’s either running or hunting. Maybe both. If he’s running, he goes home, grabs the diary, burns the pictures, resets the board before I can move. If he’s hunting—
No.
I replay every knot I tied. Every check. Every lock. There’s a gap I didn’t see. There has to be.
I walk the perimeter again, slow this time, eyes on small things. I inhale.
Something hits me.
Motor oil?
No. Almost like soap, but stronger.
Fuck.
Cheap aftershave.
The same ghost Eagle muttered about through meds. Aftershave in a garage somewhere. A smell that doesn’t belong to my barn or to Reyes.
He didn’t get out alone.
My mouth goes dry.
My phone vibrates. I yank it out. One bar now.
A new text from a number I don’t recognize.
It’s a photo. Grainy. It’s the barn. Two figures. One slumped, one upright. A third shape in the foreground—just the hint of a shoulder. Whoever took it is almost in the frame.