Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SHILOH
I can tell something’s wrong the second I get back to Donovan’s apartment a few hours later. I tried to time it so I’d get back around the same time he did, so I went to the center for a while and made up a going-away basket for Iggy with Pierre.
I should have been here sooner.
The door is slightly ajar, and he’s so careful about everything he does that I know he wouldn’t have gone to practice and not checked twice that it was locked before leaving the building.
I don’t think when I pull my switchblade from my pocket, even though I was just living on some ridiculous high that I could actually be a better person after all.
The immediate snicking sound of the blade is proof that when push comes to shove, I’m always going to go back to the response I know, to the Shiloh I’ve always been.
But that Shiloh is the one who goes into Donovan’s apartment ready to cut anything to ribbons that might have hurt him.
And I probably would have… if I’d been here when whatever had happened happened.
I’m too late, though.
Judging by what I’m seeing, there wasn’t much of a scuffle, but there was a fight. I have to assume Donovan didn’t know whoever came in was here, or there would be more of a mess.
But still, his lamp is knocked over, and one of the couch cushions is thrown off.
And when I turn to look, the Godzilla posters on his wall are slightly askew, the glass broken.
It’s the posters that really get to me, that make my stomach clench and my entire body start to slowly spill from warm to cold.
A ping behind me catches my attention—Donovan’s phone is sitting on the counter, like he’d just come in from practice or something when he was taken.
And I know it’s a jump… but there was obviously a bit of a fight, and his posters are fucked up.
His front door was open.
And Donovan isn’t here, but his phone is.
His absence in the apartment is like a black hole—I can feel every part of me that was full of hope, full of warmth, every part of me that was the Shiloh who made promises slowly leech into that void.
All those parts strip away and leave me with nothing but the monster I’ve always been.
I don’t know why I ever thought I could be anything different. Being different made me complacent. Being complacent meant something happened to Donovan while I wasn’t paying attention.
I don’t regret visiting Iggy, but I’m ready to burn the world down if it means I can find out where Donovan went.
No, not where he went.
I need to figure out who took him.
The only problem is, as much as he asked me about my past, as much as I’ve been worried about trying to open up to him… I’ve never asked him if he had any enemies.
After figuring out what I really was, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have told me even if someone was threatening him every day, because he’d have to know…
He’d have to know what I’d do.
What I’m going to do.
I’ll have to ask Donovan for forgiveness later, but maybe it’s something he can get over since I’m going to kill someone to help him.
You could call the police.
The thought drifts through my head, and I wave it away.
I could.
I probably should.
But instead, I pick up Donovan’s phone.
“Donovan! I was just talking about you,” he says, picking up after the first ring. His voice is bright and cheery. If I’d had any suspicion that Oakley was the one who hurt Donovan, this would alleviate it.
“Who would want to hurt him?”
There’s a pause, and all that bravado and charming cheer is gone when Oakley speaks again. “Is he there?”
“No,” I spit, looking around the apartment. “He’s not here. The door was open and the place looks like there was a fight.”
Oakley snorts. “I don’t know many people who could take Donovan in a fight.”
My fingers feel numb as I make my way across the room, gently trying to straighten the posters.
I only end up cutting the tips of my fingers on the shattered shards of glass.
“His posters are fucked up, Oakley. If you’re as close as you say you are, tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead.”
There’s a beat of silence, an intake of breath, and then a low sound that’s almost a growl.
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
Kill him.
That means he knows who did this.
“Who?”
“Have you called the police?” Oakley snaps instead of answering me, and I bark out a laugh.
“Right, because I can trust them to handle this in a timely fashion. No, I haven’t called the police. I need to find him, Oakley. So who did this?”
Like he’s not listening to me at all, I hear him start to shuffle around. “I can be on a plane in less than an hour and on my way there.”
I’ll give him points for being a good friend, because I have a feeling Oakley would draw the same logical conclusion that I am as to exactly what needs to happen to the person who took Donovan.
Which means I need him to listen even more. Him getting on a fucking plane to fly across the entire country is going to be hours of Donovan being gone.
We don’t have hours.
“You were right when you met me, Oakley.” The confession cuts him off short—the sound of rummaging stops.
“I’m just as dangerous as you think I am.
Whatever you were imagining that day when you saw me in his apartment, I’m worse.
I know for a fact you’re halfway across the country…
and we both know that someone who would take Donovan isn’t going to play around while you get on a flight and come here. ”
We both know.
Because Oakley is like me, and the low hiss of anger that escapes his lungs before he snorts confirms it. “There’s a reporter who’s been giving him trouble.” The information comes easily, and I already expect the words that spill out after. “This is all your fucking fault. I knew you were fucked.”
“Yeah, welcome to the plot, Oakley. Though maybe Donovan is lucky that I’m here so I can take care of the problem.”
“I could—”
“How long have you known about it?” I hiss, and he pauses.
That’s answer enough.
“His name is Kyle Penton. I can get you his address.”
I don’t tell him, but this is going a long way to me not breaking my promise again and killing Oakley. Especially when he ads… “Tell me if you need help when you’re finished.”
I know what he’s offering. “I know how to hide a body, Oakley.”
The confession spills out easily, and he snorts in response. “Maybe, but I’ll make sure it’s deep enough that it never touches Donovan.”
As deep as the water we dropped that body into together…
As deep as the way I feel about him.
As deep as I hope his forgiveness runs when I show up with bloodstained hands… I just hope that when I do, he’s okay.
I’m glad Oakley had an address for me, even though it came with the stipulation that he was going to call the cops if I didn’t get back to him in the next hour with information about Donovan.
I wanted to tell him that an hour isn’t a long time to cleanly plan a murder… but the truth is, I’m not going into this clean. I don’t care if I leave behind a mountain of evidence.
All I care about is getting Donovan back safely.
And honestly, as I approach his house I realize that for someone who managed to get the jump on Donovan, this asshole isn’t very good at making sure he doesn’t pay for what he’s done. From the little bit Oakley told me, he’s not even after Donovan.
Which makes me silently promise to myself that if something does happen, or something already happened and I’m too late… I’m going to make sure that cocky little asshole pays for letting his best friend get harassed by a freak like Kyle.
His back door is locked, but he has his fucking windows open like a complete dumbass, and it’s easy to slip in through one with my slight frame. Even better, I can hear movement deeper in the house.
As much as I want to go straight to him and put a knife in his side to twist until he tells me where Donovan is, I know it’s better if I find him first. I’m going to be distracted until I know he’s safe… and I can’t afford to be distracted.
Shit, ever since I met him, none of my kills have been clean. It’s all been chaos and unplanned bullshit. If I’m going to stay with him, I’ll have to retire anyway before I end up spending twenty to life in prison.
Though they’d probably put me on death row.
I honestly think I might be willing to die for Donovan, but I’d prefer if it wasn’t like that.
I try to be quiet as I skirt my way through the open-plan kitchen and sweep my eyes around the house. If I were going to hide a gorgeous hockey goalie who was over six feet tall, I’d want to do it in a basement.
Since this house doesn’t look like it has a basement, the best I can do is make my way toward the back and start carefully opening rooms.
The first one is just a bedroom, and my nose instantly wrinkles.
There are pictures of Oakley everywhere on the walls. Photos and candid shots, magazine cutouts.
It looks like an obsessed teenager’s room. The longer I look, the more I see.
Jerseys… food wrappers?
My nose wrinkles when I look at the table beside his bed. I’m pretty sure there’s a used condom in a plastic case. Like he wants to preserve it.
What the fuck. I shut the door and back away.
“Idiot,” I breathe. Because who would be obsessed with Oakley when Donovan is right there.
With a frown, I go to the next room, really hoping that I’m going to find my boyfriend. The longer I don’t find him, the more the anxiety in my chest is starting to build.
I need to see him—to touch him and feel his warmth. I need to make sure he’s okay.
I need…
My thoughts trail off as I push open the next door, only realizing as I do that there’s a lock on the outside.
The walls are white, and there’s a bed in the corner.
And a bucket.
And… chains coming from the floor.
It’s the perfect place to keep someone if you were going to kidnap them.
But I don’t see Donovan.
“Who the fuck are you?” A voice behind me asks, and I turn and swing my knife without thinking. Maybe I’m a little overeager, because it catches him across the throat and I let out a low curse the second arterial spray washes over my chest.
“Fuck.” I step forward, catching him as he falls to the ground. “Fuck, where’s Donovan?”
His eyes widen in confusion, in shock.
Why is he confused?
“W… wh…” His voice is all the proof I need that I’m too good at killing.
“Where. Is. Donovan?” I ask again, lifting the knife and slamming it into his side.
He’s dying anyway, so it’s not like I have much time to be subtle. I’d half wondered if I could find Donovan and call the police, if I could still be the good Shiloh he sees when he looks at me.
But he has a fucking creepy ass shrine to Oakley, and honestly… Someone who hurt Donovan was never going to make it out of here alive.
“Not… I…”
He shakes his head back and forth and then lets out a gurgly scream when I twist the knife.
I’d expect someone like him to start confessing… but he starts shaking his head again.
Faster.
And then he says one word.
“Oakley.”
“Fuck.” I snap, lifting the knife from his side and slamming it into the center of his chest. His eyes go wide, his breathing speeds…
Speeds…
Slows.
And stops.
This wasn’t what I wanted at all.
I drop the dead body and stand up. There’s no point in me trying to brush myself off, so I strip out of the black jacket I’m wearing and make sure I don’t track any blood through the house as I grab a bag to toss it into from his kitchen.
Once I’m sure I’m not leaving evidence behind, I do a sweep of the house… but I already know what I’m going to find.
Nothing.
Nothing but a weird fucking shrine to Oakley that has a used condom, some of what I can only assume is his hair, and a huge collection of food wrappers, trash, autographs, and newspaper articles.
Fucking weirdo.
I pull Donovan’s phone from my pocket, and this time, Oakley answers before the first ring finishes.
“Did you find him?”
“He’s not here.” I glance around at the white walls with their photos pinned to them, at the dead body on the ground, and the bed behind me. “Are you sure he doesn’t have another house? He’s definitely a freak.”
Freak is an understatement, but…
“That’s the only place he has. He’s just a reporter, he can’t afford a second location.”
Second location. Oakley might be more of a psycho than I am. My phone dings and I pull it out, half hoping it’s Donovan telling me he was just playing a practical joke and everything is okay. He’ll probably forgive me for killing this guy…
Probably.
“Well, maybe you were wrong, because Donovan…”
I trail off as I stare at my phone. It’s a text from a blocked number.
It’s a picture of Donovan tied up in a dingy-looking room… wide-eyed and afraid but alive.
Come get him if you want him.
A second later an address pops up on the screen. It’s not where I am—it’s twenty minutes away from where I am.
And the dead man at my feet definitely isn’t the one texting me.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?” I half startle. I forgot I was even on the phone with Oakley. I glance between the dead body—which is honestly kind of his fault—and the photo on my phone. I’m already moving, though, because I have an address now. I know where Donovan is.
“I killed the wrong man.”
Uh… oops?