47. Bindi #2
Ice. My whole body turns to ice.
My throat slams shut, panic flaring hot and bright. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . He shouldn’t know my name.
I blink up at him, schooling my face into something as blank as I can manage. “Excuse me?” My voice comes out, edged with fake confusion.
His smile tightens. “You are Bindi Vega, right? From Miami?”
Fuck.
“No. Nope. My name’s Clarissa.”
The bored clerk scans his groceries, not even bothering to look up. No help there.
“I get it,” the guy says smoothly, grabbing his wallet. “You’re cautious, smart. But you don’t need to be scared, I’m here to help. ”
“Help me?” I echo, breath catching, dragging in a shaky inhale through my nose.
He pulls out a badge like it’s a magic trick, flipping it open with a flick of his fingers. “Detective Ramirez. FBI.”
The world tilts sideways.
FBI.
Fuck.
My palms go clammy, my heartbeat slamming so hard I can barely hear myself think. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
He shrugs, paying for his stuff. “Like I said, you’re free to leave anytime—door’s right there. I just thought . . . might be worth your while to hear me out first.”
The clerk’s done ringing me up now, sliding the cupcakes and tampons into a thin plastic bag. I fumble for cash and shove it at him, grabbing the bag before he even offers me the receipt.
I need to get out. Now.
“I see you’re enjoying playing house.”
I grit my teeth, turning away fast, already moving for the exit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But he follows—of course he fucking follows.
We hit the parking lot at the same time and I make a beeline for the truck, head down, keys tight in my fist?—
“Cassidy Reyes.”
I stop dead in my tracks.
My whole body goes rigid, breath locking in my chest. I turn, slow and stiff, eyes locking on him.
He stands there, calm and steady, holding my gaze like he’s already won. “He might’ve painted you a pretty picture, Bindi, but he’s dangerous. You don’t have to go down with him. Let me help you.”
For half a breath, I waver. One second, that’s all. But it’s enough to make me hate myself.
“Help me?” I spit, shaking my head. “Nobody’s ever helped me for free. What makes you any different? I have nothing to say to you.”
His smile fades just a little. “Do you have anything to say to the families of the people he’s killed?”
My stomach turns, bile creeping up the back of my throat. I glance at the ground, then back at him. “Anyone who Cassidy has hurt . . . deserved what they got.”
His eyes narrow, tone dropping low and lethal. “Honnold family. Tennessee. Two years ago. Deadman’s sent him in for the father; ended up taking out the wife and their teenage daughter, too.”
“Bullshit. Cass would never?—”
“Wouldn’t he?” Ramirez cuts me off, stepping closer. “The coroner said he tied the husband up and tortured the wife for hours, after suffocating the daughter in her sleep. That’s your guy, Bindi. That’s your Prince Charming.”
I choke on air, shaking my head hard. “Why the fuck are you telling me this?”
Ramirez steps in closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. He pulls out a card and presses it into my hand. His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Because I can get you out of this—a new name, a clean slate. One thing from you, and you’re free. Cassidy doesn’t kill because he has to, he kills because he likes it. I’ve got files full of stories just like that one.”
I look down at the card. FBI logo. His name. His number.
I breathe out, “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna let you take him away from me.”
“Your little fantasy life is almost over, Ms. Vega. And when it crashes down? You’ll be in prison right next to him.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, frozen. I stare down at the card, my fingers twitching around it like it’s burning a hole straight through my skin. FBI logo. Ramirez’s name. His number .
Like it’s that easy. Like I’d ever hand Cassidy over.
I crumple the card in my fist, crushing it until the edges bite into my palm. My knuckles go white.
Then I rip it once, twice, over and over until it’s nothing but tiny scraps, little confetti bits that drift down onto the pavement like snow.
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck you. Fuck this.”
I yank open the truck door and toss the bag onto the seat. I climb in after it, slam the door shut, and jam the key into the ignition. The truck grumbles to life beneath me, loud and low, like it’s as pissed as I am.
I grip the steering wheel tight and peel out of the lot hard enough to make the tires squeal. The town slips by in a blur of cracked sidewalks and sagging awnings, empty roads shimmering under the early morning haze.
But I can’t stop shaking. My mind’s racing too fast to keep up, every thought crashing into the next.
Cassidy Reyes.
FBI.
Honnold family.
Torture. Murder.
No. No. That can’t be right. That’s not Cass. I know him. I know what he’s capable of—and what he’s not.
But the words won’t stop circling, biting into me like teeth.
Cassidy doesn’t kill because he has to, he kills because he likes it.
I press down harder on the gas, my fingers flexing hard around the wheel. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I let out a chuckle.
A fresh wave of dread punches through me, and I glance at the rearview. Nothing but open road behind me, but it’s not enough. I slam my foot on the brake and veer off into a turnout, gravel spitting under the tires as I yank the wheel hard.
The truck shudders to a stop, engine idling.
“Fuck,” I hiss, shoving the gear into park. I grab the flashlight from the glove box with shaking fingers, my heartbeat thudding loud in my ears.
I fling the door open and drop to the ground. The morning air is crisp, cold enough to make my eyes sting, but I don’t care.
I crouch low, heart hammering, and start dragging my hands along the undercarriage, fingers skimming every edge, every bolt. The metal’s slick with dew, the flashlight beam jittering as I sweep it back and forth.
Nothing.
I crawl around to the other side, dress soaking through with wet mud and grass, the cold biting deep, but I don’t stop. I scrape my knuckles along the axle, breathing hard, scanning and scanning.
Still nothing.
I pop the hood next, shining the light deep into the tangle of wires and hoses, fingers moving fast, frantic. I check every corner, every crevice.
Clean.
My whole body is shivering from adrenaline, but I’m not convinced. I circle back, run my hands along the wheel wells, the bumpers, even under the truck bed.
Nothing. No wires. No magnets. No trackers.
I drop to my knees, the gravel biting in, and tip my head back, staring up at the sky. The sun’s cresting over the horizon now, burning bright and sharp against the clouds.
I press my hands over my face, my breath shaking through my fingers.
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to steady myself. “Okay. You’re fine. You’re fine.”
But I don’t believe it.
I scrub my palms down my face, wiping the grit onto my jeans, and stand up on shaky legs. I climb back into the cab, slam the door shut, and lock it. Then I shove the key into the ignition.
The engine rumbles awake, steady and low. The clock on the dash blinks at me—8:23 a.m. now.
I slam the gear into drive and peel back onto the road, heading home. If I’m even allowed to call it that.