Fuck.
“Milo is dead,” the mangled mess gurgles. “He’s dead. I swear. He didn’t come out of the bar that night. I swear on my life.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Jameson says. At least the fucker really believes what he’s saying.
“I am, I swear. If he got out, we would have seen him. He would have gone home. He would never leave Willa.”
“Don’t say her fucking name,” I growl, stomping my boot down on his legs. His body jolts back and forth, trying to get away from my onslaught.
“God dammit! Please,” he begs, his elbows digging into the carpet, trying to pull his body to safety. “I’m telling you the truth!” he cries.
“I believe you.” I nod before aiming my gun and putting a slug in his skull.
“Motherfucker,” Jameson barks, running a hand through his hair, tapping the side of his head with his gun. “I should have known you couldn’t wait until we got him somewhere no one would find him.”
“He fucked kids on film. No one is going to be crying over a dead animal.”
I swallow the urge to spit on his dead body. “Leave him. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Twelve
Willa
The shadows creep up the walls as the trees whisper to each other in the wind. Every sound and movement becomes clearer when you’re alone, your senses heightened. Gabe left hours ago and hasn’t returned. It’s not my place to worry about him, yet here I am. I still don’t understand how someone so selfless and wonderful exists amongst all the darkness in the world. My heart won’t settle as I pace the spare room.
Moving to the bed, I sit, stroking over the patterns with my palm. Everything is luxury here. Back home, I still had a duvet from when I was a child, the rainbow pattern so faded, you couldn’t make out the colors anymore. I don’t miss that place, but I wish I had books here. Sleep evades me, and fear of having to return home torments my waking hours.
Sighing, I leave my room and walk the house. There are a lot of rooms yet to be completed, and my mind designs and fills them as if they are mine. One day, I want a house like this—more rooms than reasons for them, land, maybe animals. The painting supplies are still out in the living space. It’s something small I could help with to pay back all of Gabe’s kindness and kill this pent-up energy.
Tying my hair into a braid, I get started, using a roller to add the white paint. I’ve covered an entire wall by the time tires kick up gravel outside. He moves through the house so stealth-like, it’s not until I hear the tap turn on in the kitchen that I know he even came inside. I make my way there, nerves churning my stomach.
His back is to me as he washes his hands. He’s so broad, he makes me feel safe. I mourn the loss of this feeling, like it’s gone before he’s even sent me on my way.
As if sensing my presence, he turns abruptly. “Willa, why are you awake?”
There’s blood on his knuckles. Cuts. I race across the kitchen toward him. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” He turns away, pushing them back beneath the spray of the water.
“You hurt someone?” I whisper, all too familiar with those types of wounds.
“That’s what I do—what I am, Willa. You know that. You’ve seen it.”
Of course I have. Why the hell did I just shut that part of him out? He’s muscle for a motorcycle club. That’s how we met for Christ’s sake.
Turning off the tap, he wraps a cloth around his hand, leaning his ass against the counter. “I need to tell you something.” His brows pull together, and my heart begins to pound.
“It’s Milo,” I gasp, my head whirling.
I sway on my feet and reach for the table to steady myself, swallowing the lump forming. Gabe’s beside me in a heartbeat, arms bracing me. Lowering me into a chair, he drops to his knees before me. “Is he dead?”
“Jameson came by earlier because he had some information. I needed to find out if that information was truthful.”
“Was it?”
“The fire at the bar…” he takes my hands, squeezing, “Milo didn’t make it out.”
No. That’s impossible. He was fine. Conscious. He would have gone out the back. He would have had plenty of time. I bolt up, snatching my hands away from his and forcing the chair backward. “Whose blood is that?” I point to his beaten-up hands.
“Willa?” He holds both hands up, shaking his head. “It’s not his. I’m telling you the truth. I will always be truthful with you.”
“Then tell me whose it is.”
“It’s my blood. I cut my knuckles.”
“You asshole,” I breathe. He’s dodging the question.
“I needed to know if he really was gone, to know if it was safe for you.”