Working the clutch, I follow his instructions. I try to steady the drums imploding in my chest. With every inhale, an imaginary dagger twists and turns in my heart. The old wound that Leith’s arrival atoned for has unraveled.
“First left. Chevelle, make the bloody left! Slow down.” A flicker of concern crosses Leith’s face as he regards me for a moment. The muscles in his jaw flex. “Yer mind’s not in this. Drive us back to the restaurant. We’ll reschedule.”
“No!” My glare flickers over to him, locking onto his in defiance. His doubt drains when I add, “I’m ready for this, Leith.”
His hand finds mine for a half of a beat. The warm, callous touch is only a momentary comfort. My palms slide around the steering wheel. About a half-mile ahead, the tunnel comes into focus. The tail end of a red Bentley Continental eases straight through the cement opening.
Leith had rerouted all traffic coming from the opposite end of the tunnel. We’re the last to zip beneath the cement channel. About halfway through the two-mile tunnel, we see the cherry red luxury vehicle.Stalled. The emergency lights flicker, rousing my hesitant heart, the dagger in sudden rotation again.
Fausto is standing near the driver’s side door as we approach. He’s fiddling with his cellphone, a look of confusion crossing his face as he tosses the phone back into the car.
“Cellphone’s disabled, mate, just like your car,” Leith mutters, pulling on a pair of gloves.
Fausto’s arm cuts through the air as I pull into the suicide lane behind him.
“Ye’re strong, Chevelle. Use it.” Leith’s mouth bruises against mine in a fierce kiss. A dominant hand seizes my hair for a fraction of a second. Before I can intake air, Leith steps out of the car.
“You stopped, thank you, thank you! The world’s just not the same these days,” Fausto tells Leith. When I slide out of our stolen ride, Fausto’s eyes land on mine. He chokes on air. “Ophelia, lock the fucking door!”
“I wanted you to see my face.” While my sole concentration is on him, I slam the door. “To look into my eyes,UncleFausto.”
“Ophelia, lock—”
“I’m trying!” Her voice trembles through the open driver’s side window.
As I advance on him, Fausto steps back. “Bitch—”
“Nae,” Leith’s grave voice obliterates every thought from my mind. This was my show. He was my support. Now, I’m immobile. Leith moves fast; his forearm constricts Fausto’s airway. The fifty-something slimy attorney thumps against the car.
From the car window, Ophelia’s screams, “I can’t lock the door! Fausto? Fausto!”
“Four minutes,” Leith warns. His fist smashes into Fausto’s stomach. “Ye watch the mouth while I get yer woman out of the car, or ye be dying.” He grips Fausto’s hair, bringing him to his knees. “Do ya understand that I mean a world of pain more than what my wife has in store?”
“Okay.” Fausto wheezes through gritted, yellow teeth.
In a wide-legged stance, I reach beneath my dress to remove the Glock from the thigh strap.
“You’re looking for your mom?” he asks, scrutinizing my gun wearily. “Marcy manipulated you, Carla. You’re little Carla Anderson. I refuse to refer to you by that ridiculous name Marcy gave you. All of this is because of her. Not me!”
I fist the power in my palm. “Eh, I pickedmyname. My momma gave that bitch a Chevelle. We drove away from myhorror story of a lifein a Chevelle. Besides, I love my name; my soulmate loves my name. So, Chevelle’s my fucking name.” I lift my chin in defiance. “So, that bitch murdered my parents all alone? No help?”
“Yes! It was—”
“Well, dead people can’t answer for themselves. That leaves you.”
“No!” Spittle flies from his coffee teeth. “Let me grab my phone. I’ll give you Marcy’s address. Your mom—”
“Stop calling her my mom!” I snarl. “What phantom address will you pull out of your rotten ass?”
“Marcy’s alive!”
Damn, I’m unable to read him. He hasn’t offered a flicker of deception or the slightest tell.
“Should I let Ophelia go?” I gesture to his immaculate fiancée. Leith flings her into Fausto. He scoots around on his knees, placing distance between them. She gasps at his nonverbal answer.
“Three.” Leith refers to our window of time, coming to my side.
“Fausto says Marcy’s not dead,” I whisper.