Текст книги "Vendetta"

Автор книги: Sienna Lane

Соавторы: Autumn Karr
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

two

LEIGHTON

I wake up covered in sweat. When did I pass out? I lift my hand and touch my throbbing temple, wincing in pain and squeezing my eyes shut, praying that the pounding in my head goes away.

“Shit,” I curse when I replay in my mind what happened. George hit me, and Devon kidnapped me. Do they have a death wish? My dad would castrate both of them for touching me.

Any man in my family would.

I take in my surroundings. The room I’m in is decorated in black, white and red. The bed I’m lying on is plush, the smooth sheets underneath me satin. It’s not much smaller than my own room. I'd almost like it, if I wasn't here against my will.

My eyes scan the rest of it, looking for any means of escape. They clearly kidnapped the wrong girl if they think I’m going down without a fight. The sole window is barricaded by iron bars on the outside, and there are two doors on one side of the wall, one of which I assume is a closet, and one more on the opposite which I know is the way out.

I get up, and the dizziness rushes to my head, making me slump back onto the bed. I try again, this time slower, waiting for it to hit again, but it doesn't. I walk to the door silently, and slowly turn the doorknob. Locked. As I had suspected.

I try the window next, finding it sealed shut. I rattle it in its frame, but it won’t budge. And even if it would, it won’t serve any purpose. A glance through the window confirms my fears; there are no other houses or busy roads in sight. Even if I attempted to scream for help, none would come.

I walk to the two doors. One of them is a small closet, completely empty, and I give up straight away on searching it for anything that can help me escape.

The other door leads to a bathroom, and contains only one small octagon-shaped window with frosted glass. I stand up on the edge of the bathtub and try to open it, even though it’s most likely too small for me to fit through. The only thing I’m able to do is move it slightly to let fresh air in, but I’m greeted by another set of iron bars preventing anyone from getting out or in, even if I could squeeze myself through it.

Giving up on the window as a means of escape, I look around for anything I could use as a weapon. I like to think I can be pretty resourceful when I need to be. However, my search comes up empty. Unless I want to make a shank out of a toothbrush, the way my cousin Dom showed me how to do it.

The sudden emotion at the thought of him is overwhelming. Dom is the closest thing I have to a brother. After my godfather, his dad, went to prison, my dad took him in as his own son. Dom always took care of me, ever since we were children. If he were here, he’d know what to do.

I will myself not to cry, because he’s not here, so what’s the point? I could waste time feeling sorry for myself, wishing someone were here to help, but I was taught differently.

I have to fight.

I make use of the bathroom, and can’t help but pause when I pass the large mirror. My black hair is disheveled and knotty, falling down to my hips. My blue eyes are slightly red, and wide in my face. My whole right cheek is puffy and bruised, where that bastard George hit me.

He’s going to regret doing that.

I splash some water on my face, and decide to look around one more time. There has to be something I could use. Anything.

And then it hits me.

The mirror.

I look around for something to smash it with, but the only thing sturdy enough is a lamp with brass stand on the small bedside table. I guess it’s going to have to do. I use it to crack the mirror, and manage to pull out a piece of glass, cursing when I accidentally cut across my palm.

Exiting the bathroom, I look around the room to find something to wrap the piece of mirror in. My eyes land on the flimsy scarf he used to gag me. Fucking asshole. I wrap it around one end, making sure it’s as thick as I can get it so as not to cut myself again when I use it. After hiding it under my pillow, I sit back down on the bed to wait for whatever he has in store for me.

I play out various scenarios in my head, hoping to prepare myself for whatever is going to happen next. My fighting skills are limited to basic self-defense, a few classes here and there. I should have been better prepared for this moment, I realize. There’s only one thing I’m skilled in—shooting. My father insisted on it, and Dom taught me how to shoot. It doesn’t mean shit, since it’s doubtful I’ll be lucky enough to get my hands on a gun.

I don't know how much later, the door opens, and he walks inside. He’s shadowed, but I’d recognize his silhouette anywhere. He carries a plastic plate of food and a bottle of water, and places it on the floor.

On the floor. Like I’m a pet, or something.

My stomach growls loudly as the food smell hits my nose, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.

“What do you want from me?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice strong and unwavering. I assume I’m here so he can collect a ransom from my dad, but I could be wrong. I know that he’d willingly pay whatever they want in order to get me back.

Devon stands there, watching me in silence. When he finally takes a step forward I stand up and walk straight up to him. The way he eyes me with disdain makes me bristle.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” I spit out at him, my hands trembling in fury.

“I'm pretty sure I already did.” He gives me a cocky grin that I'd really like to wipe off his face. “You're here, aren't you?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. I move closer, invading his personal space, hoping to get any kind of reaction from him. He shakes his head, watching me in amusement. “Yeah, that's not going to work this time.”

I lift my hand to slap him but he catches it before I make contact with his face. I maneuver my leg to knee him in the balls but he blocks me just in time. I elbow him in the stomach, which is as hard as a rock, and I’m sure it hurts me more than it does him. Gripping my upper arms, he drags me through the room, pushing me face down onto the bed.

“You raise your hand to me again and you will regret it. Next time I'll send someone up here who isn’t as nice as me. Now get used to your surroundings, cause you’re going to be here for a while,” he says.

I inch my hand under the pillow searching for the piece of glass. As soon as he takes his weight off me, I turn and swing my arm, trying to cut him anywhere I can. It's a small victory when the shard makes contact with his arm, cutting his skin, but it’s nothing serious. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down again.

“Fuck,” he curses, taking in the weapon. I squeeze it in my hand and try to swing again, letting him know I won’t give it up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He pries the shard out of my clenching fingers, and then puts his hand around my neck, squeezing.

Warning.

“You move, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he growls, strengthening his grip. I let my body go limp.

He looks at his hand around my throat, and then his eyes find mine. I try to swallow, but he's practically suffocating me. He snatches his hand away and I gasp for air.

“I didn’t even think of the fucking mirror,” he mutters to himself, sounding shocked, and maybe even a little impressed. He pulls out some rope from his back pocket. His fucking pocket. The man is psychotic.

“Now, you’re going to stay here like a good girl until I clean up your mess,” he says condescendingly, binding my hands together, raising them above my head, and then tying them to the iron headboard. “Try and move, and you'll regret it.”

I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fucking despise him.

He strides out of the room, coming back with a bag, dustpan and broom, and various tools. I ignore him as he cleans up, and when I hear the drill I know he’s taking down the rest of the mirror. I squirm, trying to remove the binds, but he’s tied them too tight. Bastard must have been a boy scout or something. Just my luck.

“Anything else up your sleeve?” he asks, chuckling as he walks past the bed and outside the door, the broken mirror in his arms.

I bang my head on the headboard. Seven fucking years of bad luck, all for nothing.

This time he comes back empty handed. He leans over me, untying me, and frowns when he sees the blood dripping down my palm. I rub my wrists as he leaves once more. Each time he locks the door behind him, obviously not taking any chances. He returns what must be half an hour later, carrying a huge bag.

“Clothes, toiletries and shit,” he says, dumping the bag on the floor. Then he surprises me by throwing me a package of Band-Aids.

I look at him curiously, my eyes dancing between the Band-Aids and him.

“Don't want any more blood on my sheets.”

I narrow my eyes. Fucking asshole. I grab for the package, taking out one Band-Aid. His gaze burns through me, but I ignore him. I apply it to the cut across my palm, and then I touch the side of my face, trying not to wince in pain. “I could use some painkillers, too,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Tough luck,” he says, shrugging.

“Why the hell are you being so mean?” I never thought he would be like this. The Devon in my head is someone else completely.

“I'm just being me.” His words are cold, emotionless. Realization hits me—this really is him, no matter what I made him out to be in my head.

“Look . . . ” I say, but his back is already turned to me. Without sparing me another glance, he leaves.

The sound of the lock is final, and echoes throughout the room.

I want to call out, I want to beg for some answers, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

How is this going to play out?

I try to make up some plan in my head. I might not be able to fight him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. Obviously I can't escape, not without some heavy strategizing.

My stomach rumbles. I can still smell the food he brought in. I'm so hungry, but I’m not stupid enough to eat it. Who knows what he did to it?

I sit on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs. I put my head down on my knees, and allow myself a moment's weakness.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

* * *

Devon walks in a couple of hours later and studies me where I sit, huddled on the bed.

“Nice to see you’ve calmed down,” he says dryly. I don’t respond, my eyes darting to the door behind him.

“Don’t even bother. I really don’t have it in me for another round with you,” he says, taking a seat on the chair across from the bed, rubbing his hand over his face. I notice he has his arm patched up, and it gives me a secret thrill.

“You said you’ll kill me,” I tell him, shrugging. What did he expect, that I’d just sit here and wait for whatever he has in store for me? He should have known I’d keep fighting.

“Look.” He raises his head, pinning me with his emerald stare. “This situation is what it is. You're only here because of your own stupidity. You knew better than to follow people like us to dark places and expect to walk away. But you got caught, and the reality is that you’re here and need to be dealt with. I’m the only person standing between you and instant death right now. Everyone else in this place wants you gone.”

“And what do you want?” I ask, pulling the sheets closer to my body.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it and runs his hand through his hair. He gets up from the chair and eyes the untouched food on the floor, frowning. “Don't worry about that,” he finally says, bending down to pick it up. His shirt rides up, revealing his tanned back for just a second, and I think there’s something wrong with my brain for ogling him after everything that happened since last night. “For the time being, you need to stay here, and I’m warning you right now not to cause any trouble.”

My eyes snap to his, narrowing. He wants me to be his good little prisoner. Yeah, that'll happen.

“And if I do?” I ask.

He heaves a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling.

“Then you die, Leighton,” he states. The way he says it, his tone perfectly even, as if he doesn’t care either way, has me panicking.

Although Devon and I haven’t spoken before, we have seen each other plenty of times over the years. A party here, a night out there—it was impossible to ignore him. People in these circles tend to flock together. If I said we grew up together it would technically be true, although we never socialized—at least not in the usual way.

It just feels wrong that he would want to intentionally hurt me. The way he's looking at me tells me he's serious, though. Apparently, I will get no compassion from Devon Andre.

“What are my chances of getting out of here alive?” I ask, deciding I have nothing to lose at this point.

Devon looks down at the floor for a few moments. And then he leaves without a word.

three

DEVON

I shouldn't have brought her here. The thought echoes in my mind as I sit in my uncle's office discussing this new turn of events regarding my parents. Everyone's putting their two cents in about what should come next, the excitement palpable in the room. But I'm not listening to any of it; instead, I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess.

Over the years, I’ve had many theories as to who it was that killed my family. Apart from us Andres, there are three other big families in Boston—two more Italian, and an Irish one.

We’re good with the Potenzas, but that’s a recent development. Seeing as they operate outside of the city at their headquarters in Rhode Island, I never even suspected them. Either way, they have their own worries. A couple of months ago someone set up a bomb in Anthony Potenza’s car. No one important died, only the driver, but there were rumors it was an inside job.

The Fermis are a Jewish-Italian family. Word is, they have been lying low after a bust a couple of years ago, but I still see their men doing business. Neither family had any reason to want my father dead. If anything, we co-existed peacefully in this city, our paths crossing a couple of times, but nothing mention-worthy ever happened between us.

The Moore clan, Leighton’s family, is a different story. There’s been some bad blood between them and the Andres even before I was born. Mostly it comes down to one thing: the warehouses, all over Chelsea. During the Prohibition the Moores controlled them, using them as storage for smuggling alcohol, until one of their bosses lost the control in a poker game. Pat Moore, Leighton’s great grandfather, lost them to a young Mario Andre, my grandfather.

It didn’t go down so well. Pat ordered a hit on my grandfather, but was taken down himself—by his own men, leaving a wife and two sons behind. They’ve been under our control ever since, but the Moores still claim warehouses belong to them.

It’s a pride thing.

It made the most sense that Leighton’s father, Keith Moore, would act on it. According to Stevie, my uncle’s right-hand man, who’d worked for my father as well, the feds were busting left and right during that time. No one was paying attention to what the Irish were doing.

“Devon,” my uncle says. I snap out of my musings, and look around to find three sets of eyes looking at me impatiently. Not my uncle, though. Frank's face gives nothing away. I focus my attention on him. “I need to talk to you after we're done here.”

You wouldn't think much of it, the way he says it in a monotonous voice, but everyone knows not to assume anything by the way he talks or looks at you, even more so if there are other people around, like his men. It could be a big deal, or maybe it's not. My mind wanders to that room on the third floor.

It might be a big deal.

“Yes, sir.” I don't call him Uncle. When my parents disappeared and he came to get me from school, on the way home he said things would have to be different now. He wouldn't be my uncle anymore, and he couldn't play favorites. I'd be one of his men and soon, I would have to prove myself.

I was thirteen years old. And I'd only seen him a handful of times before that.

His two men take this as their cue to leave and I watch them retreat, but Stevie doesn't move.

People underestimate Stevie. He may not look like much—short, bulky, and not threatening at all—but then again, neither does my uncle. Stevie is lethal when he needs to be. That's why my uncle keeps him close. That was why my father kept him close, too.

I throw a wary glance toward Stevie, unsure if I should speak about Leighton in front of him, but my uncle gets straight to the point.

“The girl?” he asks, not looking at me when he says it. He busies himself reading over the papers, the gory details of my family's demise.

“Third floor, the big bedroom,” I answer.

Stevie gives me a strange look, and then exchanges a meaningful one with Frank. I feel like I just failed a test. “That isn’t exactly prisoner accommodations,” he says dryly.

“It’s secure,” I reply, keeping my voice flat.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you,” my uncle says, giving me a once over and nodding. “I wouldn't think you'd bring her here, straight to the vultures.”

I shouldn't have. Normally, I wouldn't have, either. I don’t give him an answer, and he doesn’t seem to expect one. He never does.

“She’s a looker, that Leighton Moore,” Stevie says, studying me. His gaze doesn’t waver. I want to squirm under it, but I stand still and lift my shoulder in a shrug.

“Her beauty doesn’t change her blood.”

Stevie chuckles, and it's a chilling sound.

“Don’t be swayed by her looks. She’s just a woman,” Frank says. “If you want to get her out of your system, then by all means have at it. But don't fuck this up.”

The fact that he assumes I’m attracted to her has me worried. Someone must have said something to give him that impression, because there's no way he knows me well enough to make that assumption by himself. Maybe one of his men has seen me eyeing her in the past, because God knows I've probably done it. I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

“A pretty face is just a pretty face, you should know this better than anyone,” I say, keeping my expression serious. His face sours at my words.

Izzie, Frank's wife, had to be taken care of because Stevie had her followed and it turned out she worked for the Moores. My uncle didn't seem too broken-up about it, but who knows? I think, more than anything, his pride was wounded.

“That it is,” Stevie adds, as if he read my thoughts. Frank keeps his eyes locked to mine, searching for something. I hold his gaze, giving nothing away. Seemingly satisfied, he slides the papers my way across his desk, pointing with his fingers toward them. I take the papers, hoping my fingers don’t tremble, even though I read this over and over the night before.

Unidentified skeletal remains. Wedding rings. A red toy car. I read the words. I repeat them in my head so many times I start to feel sick.

“This is who she is,” he finally says, gesturing to the report. I nod, because I know what he's saying. She's a Moore, and they're poisonous snakes. “I expect you'll handle it when the time comes.”

“Yes,” I say, but my voice falters. I clear my throat. “You have nothing to worry about; I'll take care of it.”

* * *

I don't know why I knock on her door before I unlock it. She's nowhere in sight but I hear the shower running. I put the bag of takeout down on the bedside table, and then sit in the chair in the corner.

I scan the familiar room. Nothing looks out of place, but I'm sure she turned it upside down trying to either find a way out, or something else to attack me with. It pissed me off this morning, but now I'm just amused. I'd never have thought of the mirror.

A couple of minutes later she walks out wearing a silky bathrobe, every curve of her body perfectly outlined in it, the hem reaching just under her ass. I should have gone and got her the clothes myself, because I'd never have picked out something so revealing. Her wet hair is hanging all the way to her waist. It’s a tangled mess of ebony as she runs her fingers through it, and then twists it up and over her shoulder. My fingers itch to follow hers.

Her back is turned to me and for a second I just take in the elegant way she moves, her feet making no sound as she makes her way across the room. My eyes trail up her toned calves and higher to the hem of the robe, hungry for more.

She stills for a moment when she sees the food, but she still doesn't acknowledge me at all. She unties the sash, letting the material fall down her shoulders. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, and then follow the robe as it slips further down, revealing a body that could bring a man to his knees. She trails her fingers down her side, her every move so deliberate. I can almost feel her soft flesh under my fingertips as my eyes follow the path of her hands.

I hate what it does to me. I should never think of her body as something so perfect. I know there’s a reason I should just stand up and walk out of the room, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is right now. I was always forgetful of things that matter in her presence.

I'm hard in less time than it takes me to get up and walk over to her. Somehow I find myself standing behind her as I tangle my fingers into her hair, pressing myself into her back. She spins around, placing her palms on my chest, and pins me with her icy blues, unashamed that all of her is flush against my body, the only thing separating us my clothes. Her hand fists my shirt, her gaze unwavering from mine. I recognize the look she’s giving me, daring me. Go on, she says with those eyes. Touch me.

I want to touch her, so bad.

I relax my fist in her hair, then clear my throat and avert my gaze, hating myself for this moment of sudden weakness. I inspect the white wall to my right while she releases me and walks over to the bed and puts some clothes on.

Game over.

“Devon.” My name on her lips grates on my nerves. It’s the first time I hear her say it. She sounds a lot more composed than she did last night and this morning. Either she's putting up a front, or she actually realized her theatrics won’t get her far. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.

“Leighton,” I say, trying to put some venom in it, but even to my own ears it doesn’t sound like a curse. I shift on my feet uncomfortably, and her eyes snap to my crotch. My erection is still clearly visible, and draws a satisfied little smirk on her lips. I walk over to the door and open it to leave.

“It’s safe,” I say, pointing to the food on the bedside table before I walk out and lock her in again. I lean my forehead against the coolness of the door and pull my phone out of my pocket.

“Hales,” I say after she picks up. “I really need your help right now.”

I’m staying the hell away from this room.

LEIGHTON

I can’t stop the smirk that curves my lips. Devon may try to appear unaffected by me, but I know otherwise.

I walk toward the food he brought in: a club sandwich and fries. I don’t ask myself why exactly I believed him the instant he told me the food was safe, I just have a feeling that it is. I try to pace myself, but my hunger takes over, and I end up inhaling the whole thing. I sip the water, and then put it down, exhaling heavily.

What next? I am so damn bored in here, there are only so many hours that I can sleep and plot revenge. I wish I had a book, a music player . . . something. I’m going crazy. I stretch out my arms above my head. I realize that I need to stay active somehow. I know that the second I get the chance, I’m going to run, and I’m going to need to keep my strength up.

My mind drifts back to Devon. Aside from scaring me to death last night with that knife, he hasn't done me any harm. George hit me, not Devon. I know that doesn’t mean Devon isn’t planning something. I’ve quickly realized he’s no choirboy, but at least it gives me a little hope.

Watching him over the years, hearing rumors about him, I’ve learned a thing or two about Devon. When he turned eighteen and his uncle finally gave him more familial obligations everyone expected him to fail, proclaiming him the spoiled, good-for-nothing nephew. For some reason, he was never in the business before, at least, not in a way anyone knows about. Now he’s both feared and respected, running their operations without a hitch.

I never doubted him for a second.

And women—they love him. I was always curious about why he's not much of a man-whore as his looks and position would allow him to be. He lets them down easy, politely, but he doesn’t engage them. Word is he likes quality, not quantity.

I try to keep the bitterness out of my thoughts. If he weren't keeping me locked up in this stupid room, I'd almost respect him.

I take the hairbrush from the bathroom and run it through my hair, not wanting to deal with the inevitable knots if I were just to leave it. The side of my face still hurts, but not as much. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. The truth is I’ve never been hit before. I run my hand gently down from my temple to my jaw. Since he took the mirror, I can’t even check to see how it looks, or if it’s getting any better.

My dad would flip out if he saw me like this. They must be out looking for me by now. If anyone would notice I’m gone, it’s Dom. I wonder how long it will take him to find me, to figure out that George is a fucking traitor and that he’s planning something with the Andres.

I walk to the bed and sit down, tapping my foot on the ground. The silence is killing me. How long are they going to leave me like this? I should be grateful that I’m here, not locked up in the basement or getting tortured or killed, but I assume they’re going to try something eventually, so why wait? I really need to figure out their game plan. Is Devon the only one I will see? Or will there be others?

I hate this.

Not knowing.

Being at his mercy.

Being weak.

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard. Hold it together, Leighton. I quickly wipe away the lone tear that drifts down my cheek. I refuse to let him see me like this, let him know that he made this of me.

I'm a Moore.

I’m sure as hell not going to make it easy for him.

* * *

Hours later, the door finally opens, and I am fully expecting Devon to walk through. Instead, a tall slim girl enters. I eye her warily, not knowing what to expect. She seems familiar somehow, but I can't put my finger on it.

Neither of us moves. She tucks her curly blonde hair behind her ear, her wide, blue eyes trained on me. She's wearing black jeans paired with a white blouse and black boots. Stylish, yet casual, and all designer. The floral scent of her perfume drifts through the room.

“You must be hungry,” she says in a soft voice as she places some food on the side table. She picks up the bag of trash from the last meal and puts it on the floor outside the door, pushing it further away with her foot. I think she's going to leave, but she comes back in, closing the door behind her and looking as if she wants to say something. My gaze rakes over her, sizing her up.

I could so take her.

“Whatever you're thinking, you better stop it. There are two guards standing just down the hall,” she says, amusement dancing in her blue eyes. “Men everywhere.”

Of course there are.

I stare at her for a moment, watching her body language, the expression on her face. She’s not bluffing.

“I’m Hayley,” she says, taking a seat in the same wooden chair Devon sat in earlier. She places her arms on each side of it and studies me.

“Make yourself at home in my humble prison,” I say dryly, leaning over to see what food she brought me. A burger and fries.

“I just thought you could use some company. You must be bored out of your mind,” she says, watching me as I eat the burger.

“And who are you, exactly?” I ask her, picking up my burger. I don't bother denying the boredom.

“Hayley,” she repeats. I lift my head up and stare directly into her eyes. They’re clear and friendly and I see no anger or hate lurking behind her calm façade, but some people are good at faking that sort of thing.

“I meant who are you in the grand scheme of things, Hayley?” I ask her, taking a bite of the burger.

“I’m a family friend of the Andres,” she says, glancing around the room curiously.

“Whose room is this?” I ask her, continuing with my meal. Her curiosity has piqued my own.

She shrugs, but doesn’t answer my question, so I continue. “Do you know what’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know what they plan on doing with you, Leighton Moore, but the least I can do is drop by and keep you company now and again,” she says.

“Can you bring me a television?” I ask hopefully. I hate to ask for anything from these people, but I need something to amuse myself. And Hayley doesn't seem so bad. I stop that thought. She must know I'm here against my own free will.

Hayley purses her lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”

With that she gets up and leaves, offering me a sympathetic smile before the door locks behind her. Her sympathy pisses me off.

I finish my meal, forcing myself to eat everything offered.

With nothing else to do with my time, I have the longest shower in history. Looking through the clothes I’ve been given, I choose a pair of yellow sweats and a snug T-shirt. Who chose these clothes? I have so many questions, and no freaking idea about any of them.

The next time I see Devon, I’m going to demand some answers.

DEVON

“So, you're holding Leighton Moore locked up, eh?” Hayley says when she finds me in my uncle’s library, my head in my hands. It’s the only place in this mausoleum of a house where I can actually think, and after what happened earlier I need to clear my head.

I say nothing. She knows who Leighton is, just like I do.

“God, Devon. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, Hales, that I’m almost there. And she was in the way.” It seems like a plausible excuse. Hayley knows all my theories about who's responsible for my family’s disappearance and, well, death. I'd hate to admit to her I only brought Leighton here because I didn't want George killing her just like that—it seems stupid when you think about it. She's not any safer from me.

“Hey.” Hayley puts her hand on my shoulder and I look up at her, a golden halo around her head from the lights behind her. I always thought she looked like an angel with her beautiful blonde hair and those baby blue eyes. “What's going on?”