Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
A little later…after I’m gone. Because that meeting with Papa is part of the explanation that she can’t give me yet, her good reason for walking into this motel room instead of leaving with me.
A silence falls as Creek looks at her, a quiet that feels so damn heavy. I can’t fucking breathe again. And I’m thinking that maybe I would let them cover up these scars, if it meant never letting go of her hand.
But the best way of keeping her safe is staying out, and killing Papa when I get that chance. Not heading into another cage called witness protection.
For her, it’s right. It’s her choice. But she’s got her good reason to go in, and I’ve got a million fucking reasons to stay out.
“All right,” Creek says, closing his notebook and looking to me. “We can call it a night. We’ll meet up again another time and get those details from the Cage.”
After my girl will already have been handed over again to the Marshals and squirreled away. My throat a knotted wreck, I nod.
“One last thing, though,” he says, reaching back to pick another folder out of the pile. “I’ve got photos of men who have been reported missing and who we suspect might be in one of the stables…or might have already fought in the Cage. I understand that you don’t want to expose any fighters who are already free, Cherry. But some of these men are beyond harm. And others are still in danger. So if either of you can identify any who have been killed or who are in the other stables, we’ll have a better idea of who we’re searching for—and for the others, give their families some closure. Just as you wanted Lissa’s family to have.”
She meets my eyes, as if seeking agreement. I don’t care what we do if it means staying here a little bit longer with her.
“Okay,” she says softly to him. Maybe thinking what I am, because she’s holding my hand so tight.
Or maybe she’s just bracing herself against what’s coming. A set of four pictures. Airbag’s one, but she doesn’t seem to even look at his. Instead her gaze settles on the second photo.
I know him. “That’s the one Tusk killed in the Cage, yeah? Draft.”
She nods. “The week before Thanksgiving,” she tells Creek, her voice wavering. “The next one went by Zero. He was from our stable and he was killed in the Cage in, um…mid-October?”
“Killed by whom?”
“Papa,” she says and Creek’s eyebrows arch high.
“He was in there?”
“No. But that’s who killed Zero by making him fight.” Her breath trembles again and she looks to the fourth. “That one was…I’m sorry, I don’t know his name. It was my first time at the Cage. And he was killed right after the first fight I saw and I knew they said it was a death match but I didn’t really… So I wasn’t— I couldn’t— It was really hard to pay attention.”
My chest aches for her so fucking bad. “It’s all right, angel.”
“We know his name,” Creek tells her gently. “Was he from Papa’s stable?”
She shakes her head.
“Did you ever hear anything about the other stable owners?”
She shakes her head again, wiping her cheeks with a tissue.
“Okay.” He lays out another set of four. “How about these?”
I can answer one for her. A fighter who was still alive, at least after the last bout in the Cage, in another stable. The one who killed Flack, though I don’t say that. Then she identifies two more who were beaten to death in front of her. Then another set. Remembering their names, remembering when—even the ones who weren’t in Papa’s stables. And with each one, she looks more and more vulnerable, more haunted.
Creek begins laying out another set and her fingers clench hard on mine.
Fuck. “Do you need to do them all now? Can’t you give her a fucking break?”
“It’s okay,” she whispers tremulously. “It’s okay. That one is Pushcart. I don’t know two of the others, but, um…” She lets go of my hand, her fingers trembling wildly as she reaches out to touch the final picture. “This one is still alive. In a clinic. Because his arm was broken.”
Ah, fuck. Hatchet. I didn’t recognize him in this photo, where he’s looking like a Boy Scout fresh out of a seminary class. But she still thinks he was sent out for surgery after he saved her from Tusk. Now her face is full of so much hope, because after all of these pictures of dead men, here is one she believes she might save.
Fucking hell. Fucking hell.
Across from us, Creek is utterly still. “That one? You’re sure?”
She nods, picking up the picture in her shaking hands. “In the doc’s private clinic. And I don’t know what the doc’s name is, but if we can look up photos of licensed physicians or—”