Chapter 8
ASH
B runo’s is packed, and the soundtrack is bass and yelling.
I sit in a back booth because I’m not twenty-one yet and don’t like to flaunt that the bartenders serve me. The air is spiked with five kinds of aftershave, and the low tables are sticky with half-dried beer, which oddly makes me feel at home. I love parties and packed venues.
Unfortunately, I’m not the only one I know who decided a pint at Bruno’s was a good idea. Crosby and two of his Beta brothers—ones with faces bruised by War’s fists—are squeezed into a horseshoe of dark wood and cheap leather.
Beta Sigma Chi was supposed to be hosting a poker tournament tonight and tomorrow, which is why I figured it would be safe to stop at the bar.
I don’t look directly at the booth across the room, but I can feel them, which is almost worse.
Crosby’s wearing his navy GU crewneck, but it’s the gold class ring that catches the light every time he gestures.
He’s talking to his friends, but his narrowed eyes keep snapping to me, razor-quick, then away, like he’s practicing a menacing look and doesn’t want me to catch him rehearsing.
Not good.
I take a pull from the Guinness. It’s too foamy and doesn’t taste anywhere near as great as it did in Ireland. Still, it’s a given that I’m gonna stay loyal to the brand even in America. Refusing would be grounds for ousting from the family.
Behind the bar, a bartender calls for the next order and is instantly swallowed by a sea of raised hands and noise.
Everyone is laughing or yelling, but the only thing I’m aware of is the attention Crosby pays me.
For once, it’s not friendly or engaging.
His fleshy lips are set in a grim line when he looks over.
As though I had no right to object when he grabbed me in a crushing grip.
As a powerlifter, he knows exactly how much force he exerts with his hands, which made his power play last night borderline abuse.
The friends with him are Beta House standard-issue.
They wear expensive preppy sweaters with designer logos.
Both are taller than Crosby but seem to orbit him like he’s got more gravity.
One guy has upper teeth that protrude a little too far, making him look part-horse.
The other is the kind of guy who would kill in a Senate race, all square-jawed, neatly combed Ken Doll hair, and enthusiastic head-nodding.
Crosby leans in and whispers something. I can’t hear it, but the way his friends look over at me—first with cartoon surprise, then with full-body grins—tells me it was about me.
Staring at the mouth of my glass, I frown.
Seems like I’m gonna have another problem with them tonight.
I wish I would’ve worn a skirt because a thigh-holster is easier to reach than an ankle one.
Unfortunately, it’s freezing outside, so I went with jeans.
What I need is a flexible holster that goes around a person’s waist but they don’t make it in my size. Maybe I’ll get one custom-made.
Not that I should be thinking about pulling a gun anyway. That I even have one needs to stay a complete secret, so I usually only reveal it during life-threatening emergencies.
A GU hockey game plays on the mounted screen behind the bar. I pretend to watch it, even as my attention boomerangs back to the guys in the booth.
The next time Crosby laughs, it’s high and sharp, and he throws a sugar packet at his friend, who plays with it, trapping it between his fingers.
Then he mimes showing it to me to disguise that he’s flipping me off.
Idiots. Do they expect me to scurry out?
Not going to happen. Yeah, I’m female, so I’m not going to get into a brawl with them.
But I’m also a Patrick, and we do not scurry.
Crosby’s hostile gaze settles on me. He holds my stare for a beat, then raises his bottle in a silent salute, the kind you’d give someone at a funeral. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sticking my tongue out. Not looking to escalate things.
Ignoring them, I order another beer and stare up at the screen. I’m gonna need a plan to slip out under the radar. Before the attempt though, I’ll put my gun in my coat pocket. Just in case.
The rest of the bar hums with normal, healthy aggression: grad students playing darts, a group of theater kids daring each other to chug shots, the chess club making a pyramid of empty glasses.
After a while, Crosby stands. His friends follow suit with military precision. They move toward me almost as a single organism. The instinct to bail is strong, but I stay where I am and let my hands drop under the table.
They pass so close I smell Crosby’s cologne—sharp and chemical.
He stops, plants a hand on the edge of my table, and leans in. “Enjoying your little investigation?” Crosby says softly. “You know, you really should be careful who you piss off.”
I stare at him. Now, how does he know I’m investigating Madelyn’s disappearance? Do they have someone staking out her abandoned house? Or are they tailing me, and I missed them? Either way, not good.
Crosby’s friends glower at me. I look up at Crosby, eyes dead level.
“So, threats… That’s not something I find charming.” My voice is light, like a soufflé fresh from the oven. “Now you know.”
He smiles, all teeth. “Not threats. Call it friendly advice. You never know what’s lurking in the dark. Important to have the right friends. And to avoid making the wrong enemies.”
His asshole companions laugh like he’s hilarious. They could not be more annoying.
“Yeah. I feel like I do okay in that department.” Batting my eyes at them to feign innocent flirting, I tilt my head.
“I’m lucky that way.” The thing about the Patricks is, while we’re cool under pressure, we also like to have the last word.
In a low voice, I whisper, “And you know… Everyone’s a gangster until a real gangster walks in. ”
Crosby’s assessing gaze rakes over me, and his nasty smile falters. “I liked you better the night we met.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Keep coming , I think. I will do this all night.
He taps my glass with the back of his class ring, then walks away, with his friends close behind.
I watch them disappear out the door and pass a fogged window. Still walking.
Hmm. Really gone? Or lying in wait?
These frat guys aren’t as dangerous as gangsters are, but they could still beat me to death without breaking a sweat.
My heart should be thumping like a teletype sending Morse code. And yet, I’m calm.
It may be a fatal flaw.
For someone.
At the women’s meeting, I admire head dancer Eden Buchanan’s ice blue pantsuit.
I do not admire the equally blond and equally stylish dancer Greta Roche, standing at Eden’s six.
That’s because Scandinavian beauty Roche, who looks like an Olympic skier in a iced vodka commercial, used to be War’s girlfriend or something.
That doesn’t mean she’s deserving of my hatred. More likely, she’s deserving of my compassion because I’m betting he was an awful boyfriend. Blow jobs without reciprocation would be my guess.
And yet, here I am with the urge to flip her off for no reason at all. I need to have a talk with myself.
Two dozen women with coats slung over the backs of their chairs snack on spinach-and-mushroom quesadillas and mini eclairs as they settle into their seats.
I hover at the doorway, scanning for a seat near the wall.
The circles are tight, and heads turn when I walk in.
A few of them are older—maybe staff or even professors—but most are my age or younger, none of them familiar, except for the dancers and a girl from my sociology class who once got in a fight with the TA.
Waiting patiently, I listen to them speak the club’s oath, which to me feels kinda cult-like.
Then they discuss the campus walks, which they plan to increase as the weather warms up and parties get more frequent, as a reminder to would-be date-raping guys that women are watching and watching out for each other.
My mind wanders until we get to introductions. I’m quick to get past my own name and onto what I’m here for.
“Has anyone heard anything about Madelyn Hearn?” I ask. “She was taking a semester off but still living near campus, and she’s been missing for a while.”
Eden turns to a girl in the second row. “Cami, have you heard about a missing girl?”
Another blond, this one less ice-queen and dressed in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, tilts her head. “No. And you said she’s a student? ”
“Yes, she’s not enrolled this semester but I don’t think she’s withdrawn. Campus police are investigating her disappearance.”
“It hasn’t been on the blotter,” Cami says.
I take it she means the police blotter, which makes me wonder who she is. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
She looks up from typing on her phone. “I’m Camrynn Reynolds, student editor of the Granthorpe Daily Dispatch .
I’ll look into this. All student disappearances should be communicated to the student body president and the GDD.
It was agreed upon after the administration got criticism for its delayed communications at the start of Casanova’s?—”
“Spree?” I offer.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a spree, exactly.” Her head tilts over her phone, so her voice floats up from below her straight, wheat-colored hair. “I usually reserve that term for—doesn’t matter.” She looks up again, sucking on her lower lip. “Madelyn Hearn. I’ll look into it.”
I nod.
Camrynn Reynolds. I clock the name. I won’t need to come back to another Watch meeting now that I can follow up directly with someone.
Back in my car, Billie’s engine hums, hot and ready to roar down the highway.
I can’t open her up because of the weather, but I love the feel of her power.
The sleet comes in fits, and the wipers barely keep up.
Every few seconds, the world vanishes, then reappears, fuzzy and slick as an oil painting.
The main road to Jamie’s place is always empty at night, so I do a few miles over after making the turn.
I try to keep an eye out for deer, but the dark is thick on either side, with only the occasional porch light.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror out of habit, and I cock a brow when two pairs of headlights appear. And then, maybe a third ?
My spine stiffens as I press back against the seat, eyes narrowing. Three random cars after dark on a normally deserted road despite sleeting cold? What are the odds? Chewing the corner of my lip, I think about my exchange with Crosby.
The lead car is passed by a truck that guns its engine. My instinct is to upshift, and I go with it, but the conditions are dicey. I fishtail slightly as I make the bend. The truck has a worse time from its heavier frame, sliding sideways onto the shoulder and having to overcompensate.
Then it guns its engine in an effort to overtake me. Fuck . As I suspected, this is all wrong.
I accelerate, knowing I need to make it to the neighborhood before I get boxed in in between the truck and now-second car. With woods to the right and left, they could trap me in the middle and force me to stop.
The truck is at my three o’clock. I’ve taken two performance driving courses because I like to race, so I can outdrive a lot of people, but those sessions didn’t account for slick roads or vehicles working in tandem.
Adrenaline spikes my blood. I slow, forcing the sedan to brake hard. I’m hoping the third truck will ram it and take it out, but no such luck.
Jesus!
The front truck careens toward me, forcing me into the empty oncoming traffic lane. I slam on my brakes and downshift, dropping back, but as I’m passing the sedan it swerves, too.
I’m out of empty road.
As I’m sideswiped, Billie’s spinning tires slide left on a patch of ice. When her driver’s side tires hit the dirt, we tilt, and I’m slammed into the door.
The sedan’s momentum rams us. My door collides with a tree, and the impact causes my head to bang into the window, blurring my vision as it knocks the wind out of me.
I’m dazed for a few seconds. Or maybe even longer.
My pounding heart sounds in my ears as I struggle to get myself unbuckled, so I can get my hand down to my ankle. Shattering glass fills the night, and through the spidered windshield, I clock the danger.
Two muscular men in balaclava masks and body armor wield a bat against the glass. With a third blow, it rains down over the front seat and me.
One of them slides over the hood to grab me.
Mayday. Do it now.
My hand shoots up to yank my necklace from under my shirt. I can still signal?—
Hood Guy’s arm shoots out, too, pointing something at me. Gun!
No, not a gun.
Liquid sprays in my face. It smells sharp and chemical. Tastes bitter.
Holding my breath, I try to wipe it away, but I’m too late. It taints my mouth, burns my nostrils and seeps into my lungs.
As my eyes blur, I hear the sounds of flesh impacting something. The ground? Someone fell?
Then a voice yells, “Tranq him! Now! Now! Now!”
The world swirls, and streaks of light thin.
When the all-consuming darkness comes for me, it will not be denied.