29. Chapter 29
Barry stretched his legs in the cramped treehouse, cursing as the boards creaked worryingly under his weight. His ribs still ached slightly but every day, the pain eased. He pressed a hand to his side, muttering under his breath, then squinted through the gaps in the wood.
There was movement in the house!
His pulse spiked. At first, he thought it was the kid—Freddy, or whatever his name was—hobbling down the driveway. But no, that didn’t make sense. The kid was in a wheelchair.
This figure was taller. Not nearly as hulking as the man-mountain, but no scrawny cripple either.
Barry shuffled to the far side of the platform, zipping down his pants and peeing off the edge in a different direction, as though the stream of urine would somehow camouflage him. He kept his eyes on the figure below, his bladder forgotten halfway through.
Moonlight caught on the stranger’s shoulders, glancing off something metallic as the figure pulled something from a pocket.
A key? A knife? Barry couldn’t tell. The stranger moved toward the cars parked in the driveway, glancing warily over his shoulder, like he knew he didn’t belong in this upscale, wealthy neighborhood.
Barry fumbled for his phone, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. He lifted it, found the camera app, then zoomed in and started snapping pictures. The images were dark, blurry—worthless maybe. But maybe not. They showed something. Someone.
Another player on the board.
Was this one of Vito’s men? Barry couldn’t be sure and had no idea how many people worked for the cruel bastard.
Bile crawled up his throat as he contemplated what Vito would do to Barry if the bastard ever found him.
The idea of being found, even though he could argue that Barry was doing Vito’s bidding, was terrifying.
But who else would be sniffing around the Calvino house at midnight? Through the cracks in the treehouse, Barry snapped photo after photo, the mechanical click of the shutter sounding like gunfire in the silence of the night.
And then—
The man froze. His head turned.
Barry’s stomach plummeted. He scrambled further behind the rough wall, scraping his shoulder against the splintering wood. His heart hammered so loudly he was sure the stranger could hear it.
Had he been seen? Was Vito onto him? Was this it—was someone about to set fire to the treehouse, or wait him out until he starved?
He pressed his forehead against the wood, sweat dripping down his temple.
He’d lost track of his time up here. The days bled together.
He only left when absolutely necessary, sprinting to the corner store for snacks, water, whatever he could carry.
He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go to work.
He hoped he was still getting paid, even though he wasn’t showing up, but it was possible that someone had taken him off of the payroll when he hadn’t shown up at work for this long.
But Barry couldn’t care about that now. If Vito found him before he figured out a way to get Evangeline back under his thumb, Barry was a dead man.
The treehouse felt smaller than ever. Suffocatingly so. But Barry didn’t dare move.
He had to have patience. Patience was survival.
Still, he clutched the phone to his chest, whispering to himself like a prayer. Please, let these pictures be worth something.