Chapter Forty
“So it’s been you this entire time?” Garrett openly gapes at me from the seat opposite. He leans forward, elbows propped on the table, his dark eyes flicking between mine like he’s trying to pry open my skull and read whatever’s inside. “You’ve been the one sending her cards and letters and chocolates and flowers and gifts. Since she was like, what, eleven?”
I sigh, regretting writing Avery that damn letter whilst Garrett was hanging around, wanting to go before Axel woke up. Now he knows everything I’ve spent years trying to keep guarded.
The jet lurches forward, engines roaring as it races down the tarmac, pressing me back into the plush leather seat. The force of acceleration hums through my bones, a steady climb pulling us higher and higher, until the ground falls away beneath us. I divert my gaze to the window, the hanger shrinking into a patchwork of gray and green. I wince at the pressure popping my ears, but Garrett remains unaffected, sitting back with a smirk.
“Damn, Riot. You went about this all wrong. I thought you didn’t know you loved her, and I needed to help coax it out of you.” It’s my turn to scoff, giving my dickhead best friend an incredulous look.
“And how have you helped with that in the slightest?” I drawl, and he ignores me, lost in his own little world.
“But if you’d told me you were head-over-heels in love with her, well shit… I might not have pursued her so hard.” Gare whistles, reaching for the mi nibar despite it being eight in the morning. I shake my head, a disbelieving smile creeping through.
“You’re a fucking liar. You’d have strung her up in my bedroom and forced me to watch you pleasure her day after day.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Garrett trails off, his dark eyes turning black as he sips from a mini bottle of whiskey. I kick his shin beneath the table, although I’m also mad at myself for putting that image out there. I can’t stop seeing it each time I blink.
“Doesn’t matter,” Garrett’s eyebrows raise, a wistful look passing over his features. “She’ll never fuck you now. All that bullshit you fed her about being a team and sticking together? You should know not to make promises you can’t keep.”
I sigh, hating that he’s right. It’s a lesson I was once so disciplined in, and another barricade Avery smashed straight through. It’s like when she’s with me, curled up in my arms and staring at me like the entire world is ours for the taking; anything will bubble from my lips. I’ll tell her exactly what she wants to hear, that I’ll bring Meg back, and that I’ll carve a way for us to be together. I'd bring the freaking world to her feet. And once she steps away, the weight comes crashing down when I realize I can’t do any of those things.
“She’ll never forgive you either, you know?” I add in as a last minute snide comment, although it’s a beat too late. Garrett leans back with a cocky stretch, kicking his feet up onto the empty seat beside him. Garrett doesn’t care to reprimand himself. He doesn’t tell himself he’s not worthy of their love or stand down to let others step in. He’s a bulldozer, demolishing the social norm and putting himself directly in the center of the chaos. He takes love he doesn’t deserve and never feels bad about it, unlike most people who strive to feel justified in accepting someone’s affections.
My jaw clenches the longer I look at him.
“Yeah, she will,” he grins like the Cheshire Cat, sipping his tiny whiskey bottle and winking. “No one can stay mad at me.”
And I know he’s right, the charming bastard. Even Axel, who will give him hell, will come around eventually. They always do.
Night is due to fall any moment as we enter the quiet suburb. I’ve been behind the driver’s seat of a rental Ferrari GT all day, with Garrett munching on stolen airplane snacks, drinking his body weight in orange juice, and pissing in the empty bottles. The glucose sugars have kickstarted his energy levels, his body physically vibrating in the passenger seat.
Around two hours ago, the radio was turned up to deafening, and it’s yet to go back down, while Gare pounds his head back and forth and screams lyrics at the side of my face.
“I really hate you sometimes,” I mutter under my breath. Although I am grateful for the company. Garrett is doing a fantastic job at distracting me from thoughts of Avery and how she’s probably cursing my name right now.
Halfway through Teenage Dirtbag, I flick off the radio and ease the car to a crawl, staring through the passenger window as we roll up to the address we’ve been searching for. There’s nothing sinister about it from the outside, but I know better than to let my guard down. I’ve dealt with Fredrick before, and to him, appearances are everything.
The sun is slipping below the rooftops, bleeding streaks of burnt orange and violet across the pointed rooftop. Shadows stretch across the pavement as I ease the Ferrari to a stop, the low hum of the engine purring through the chilled air. Garrett is still oblivious to the tension gripping my spine, drumming out a final beat against the dashboard with his sticky fingers.
“At least let me finish the song before reality hits,” he whines, slumping back dramatically. I send him a flat look.
“We’re about to break into a house, not headline Coachella.”
Garrett pouts, then leans forward, peering through the windshield. “Doesn’t look like a kidnappy kind of place.” And that’s the problem. It doesn’t. The house is clean-cut and prim, the kind of place with a well-manicured lawn and a porch light that flickers invitingly. No bars on the windows, no rusted-out vehicles in the driveway. It’s almost… painfully no rmal. No one passing would know what mess is hiding behind this pretty facade or that there is a girl trapped inside.
As if a switch has been flipped in his head, Garrett reaches back into the back seat for the metal pipe, his face hardening. He exhales, cracks his knuckles, and climbs out of the car. I do the same, my fingers tightening around the crowbar I brought as we move toward the house.
The front door is locked, but Garrett solves that with a well-placed kick just below the handle. It splinters open, swinging inward with a dull groan. I smack his arm before he enters, mouthing, ‘ what the hell.' We’d agreed I would take the lead, and in my mind, we’d check the perimeter first. Gather some intel before we burst in. Garrett obviously had other ideas.
Stepping inside, the air hits me first. Stale and thick, tinged with something sharp beneath the lingering scent of wood polish and stale cologne. I scan the room. It’s eerily still like no one has been here for weeks. But there are signs of life. Cigarette butts overflowing in the tray by the leather couch, an empty drinking glass on the coffee table, discarded men’s shoes just inside the door.
When we’re not immediately confronted, I ease the door closed as much as it will allow and follow Garrett onward. Floorboards creak beneath our shoes, parts of the house shifting with our presence. But there are no screams, no pleas for help like I’d envisioned. When we cross the threshold into the dining room, I see why.
The dining table is knocked over, shards of porcelain from a broken plate scattered across the floor. A chair is lying on its side, one leg snapped clean off. A deep scuff in the wooden flooring leads toward the hallway, like someone was dragged. Garrett stills, his hyper demeanor long gone.
“Fuck,” he breathes. I swallow down the rising panic.
“Check the rooms.”
We move quickly now, methodically checking every darkened space with our metal weapons raised. The kitchen is empty. The fridge hums, but the power in the rest of the house feels empty. The skid marks stop in the hallway, leaving no further trace.
Upstairs, the bedrooms appear undisturbed. Shopping bags of new clothes and toiletries lay untouched, the curtains pulled back, and bedspreads made neatly. All except for one. A pink monstrosity covered in unicorn posters and a vanity against a glimmering feature wall. The mirror is smashed, the floral sheets are twisted, pillows thrown across the floor, and in the dim light, I spot a single drop of blood on the carpet. Bending down to inspect it, the crimson glistens. It’s fresh.
Garrett crouches beside me, running his finger along the seam of his pursed lips. “Would he really be stupid enough to bring Meg to his own safe house?” I rub my eyes, my rattled sigh doing nothing to alleviate the strain in my chest.
“Something weird has happened here, for sure. But whatever it is, we’re too late. Meg’s not here.”
“So where the hell do we go now?” Garrett stands, cracking his neck as he peers out of the window, the heavy weight of the pipe thumping against his thigh. The answer isn’t in the house.
We search every inch, but there’s no sign of her. Just a collection of fragmented evidence, whispers of a struggle, but nothing leading us to Meg herself. I’m ready to slam my fist through the wall when Garrett suddenly spins and grips my arm. Despite my arguments, he tugs me to my feet, down the stairs, and out of the back door at the rear of the kitchen.
At the far end of the backyard, there’s a garage, only big enough for one car. Its door hangs open and swings with a quiet creak against the crisp night. The scent hits me from a few feet away—a thick and metallic potency that is unmistakable.
Blood .
Without wasting any time, I use my crowbar to hold the door open and step inside. A body sprawls beneath the hanging light, the bulb swaying slightly, casting flickering silhouettes across the stained concrete. Fredrick Walters is on his back, eyes glassy, mouth slightly open as if caught mid-protest, with a singular bullet hole through his head. A dark pool has spread beneath him, seeping into the floor's cracks.
“Shit,” Garrett mutters, nudging his lifeless arm with his foot.
My stomach churns. Not because he’s dead. I couldn’t care less about the bastard, but because this means we have no leverage. No leads. Meg is still missing, and the one man who might’ve known where she was is currently bleeding out beneath us. Any hopes of returning to Avery as the hero she’s always trying to make me out to be just vanished. I rake a hand through my hair, gripping tight at my scalp.
“We’re fucked.”
“Yeah.” Garrett exhales slowly. “Unless Meg did this. Maybe she’s managed to escape and gave the bastard what he deserved.” I chew on my inner cheek. Optimism has never been my strength, and somehow, I can’t picture Meg being familiar with shooting through someone’s skull at point-blank range. There’s a slim chance I’m mistaken, but this screams the work of a professional.
“I really hope you’re right, Gare, but I can’t afford to hang around here and dig around any longer. Being present at two murders within the same week doesn’t bode well for me. We can talk theories on the way back to the jet.” Nodding, Garrett attempts to kick this body one last time, but I catch his shin with the crowbar, shaking my head. Fredrick is dead. We can finally put him behind us and have one less threat against Avery to worry about.
Just as we’re about to turn away, a shrill noise cuts through the silence. So loud that I flinch and wave the crowbar around, expecting an immediate attack. Instead, the noise repeats, drawing my gaze down to Fredrick’s body.
A phone shines through the pocket of a vintage, knitted cardigan, vibrating in time with the ringtone. I pause long enough to notice his corduroy trousers and checked slippers, an unsettling and nauseous feeling sweeping over me. The man lying before us is a far cry from the crazed mafia leader I met previously. Something doesn’t quite add up.
Garrett half shrugs and starts to reach out for the phone when I grab his shoulder to stop him. “What?” he frowns, and I can’t help my eye roll. Locating a cloth on a nearby workbench, I slip the device out without leaving any fingerprints and use my knuckle to answer the call. The number is blocked.
“You’re late,” a voice grunts. I hold the phone steady, my mind racing with how to best handle this and coming up completely empty. I figure I’ll let the man talk to himself until a moment arises that I can take advantage of, but as usual, I’m always one step behind. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago, Wyatt Hughes.”
Garrett stiffens beside me, and my grip on the phone tightens, my heart slamming into my ribs. I press my lips together, controlling my breathing before forcing an air of authority.
“I wasn’t aware I had a front-row seat to Fredrick’s death, or I would have made sure I was on time,” I reply steadily, playing the devil’s advocate until I know who I’m dealing with. A loaded chuckle follows.
“His death wasn’t part of the plan, but in your absence, he began asking questions. Going back on his word. My hand was forced.”
“I was under the impression that Fredrick pulled his own strings.” Another laugh, this one booming and bitter. I cut a sharp glance to Garrett, who’s wringing his hands around the pipe, his knuckles going white. Trepidation worms its way through my psyche, leaving a dull ache behind.
“Everyone has a boss. Even the group of delinquent kids who have been playing gangster, believing they could walk in here and retrieve their friend with what… a pipe and a crowbar?” I shoot a glance around the garage, spotting nothing out of the ordinary.
Toolboxes and a workbench, a few saws, and spanners hanging on iron hooks. It’s evident a car hasn’t been stored in here for a long time, as I only now notice heavy chains linked through metal loops on the floor. It’s more of a budget torture room, and something I’m sure wasn’t included in the original plans for the safe house. This is a recent addition.
Turning back toward the house, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. In the kitchen window, a black silhouette stands behind the blind, his hand raised to his ear. I flick my gaze to a gate in the fence, one that will give us an escape without passing back through the house. I use the crowbar to hook Garrett’s wrist and slowly start tugging him out of the garage and back into the night.
“Where is Meg?” I demand now, done with these games. We’ve been outsmarted, and we need to get out of here. Another dry chuckle echoes through the loud speaker.
“You can have the bitch for the right price.” My feet freeze in place, and Garrett bumps into my side. So this is a ransom? Could it really be that easy? I barely manage to withhold the laughter that wants to bubble out of me. At long last, this is something I can do. I’m not so helpless after all. “Keep this phone with you. I’ll text with a time and place. ”
“I’ll be there,” I say with certainty, nodding to the silhouette as if he can see him. His breath saws through the receiver.
“Not you. After the bullshit I’ve been put through, I’ll only be dealing with Avery Hughes directly from here on out. Any sign of your little gang or the cops, and the girl dies instantly.”
“See, that’s where we’re going to have a problem—” The line goes dead. Garrett swears under his breath, rubbing his nape as his eyes stare endlessly at the ground.
“Well. That’s not great,” he mutters unhelpfully.
“No, it fucking isn’t.” I tug Gare the rest of the way to the gate, taking our escape while it’s being permitted. I briefly pause by the car, vaguely wondering if it’s been tampered with, but the device in my hand is my insurance. A dead man’s phone, which has made me a messenger between this unknown foe and Avery. At least I have several hours of traveling ahead of me to decide exactly what message I’m going to deliver.