Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
We were done. Through.
I couldn’t wait for my next chapter.
TROY
FLYNN WAS DEAD.
He was still among the living when I left him at the cabin with Brock on Saturday. The detox after Miami hadn’t stuck—not much surprise there. I’d received a call from George Van Horn, complaining that his son had relapsed big time. I’d hauled Flynn to the cabin again and put Brock in charge over the weekend.
As planned, first thing Monday morning, I drove up to check on them.
Flynn was sure as fuck dead now.
Guilt ate away at my insides. It wasn’t that I was particularly fazed by death. I was even responsible for the horrific ending of two men, finished them without even blinking. But Flynn was innocent, and he’d died because his dad was too proud to seek professional help for his son at the hospital.
He also died because I cared more about the paycheck than doing the right thing.
Flynn was Sparrow. Everyone failed him. His parents. His family. His friends. The only difference was that Sparrow had me now, and I wasn’t letting anyone harm my little lovebird. If she was going to be ruined, it would be by me.
The smell around Flynn told me he had given up the ghost, but not so long ago that he stank. Which also made sense, because if Brock left him alone, it wouldn’t have been too long ago.
I rolled him from his stomach to his back with a shove, placed two fingers on his neck and checked for his pulse again.
Yeah, the kid was gone.
Looking around the cabin, I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. Brock was supposed to save him. He may have been a shithead, but he was also a badass when it came to detoxing. Why the hell has he abandoned ship without telling me, and how the fuck was I going to explain it to George?
I brushed my thumb against Flynn’s eyelids, shutting his eyes. His lost-puppy eyes were staring at me, and I needed a breather from feeling like shit.
I made the call to George Van Horn, breaking the news in code. The parcel got lost in the mail. Can’t be retrieved. What does he want me to do next. I was hoping not to hear what he answered.
“I see the post office is still overpriced and unreliable.” He took a dig at me. “Just make sure nobody else finds the parcel.” Then he hung up.
Van Horn wanted me to get rid of Flynn’s body discreetly. Didn’t even have it in him to stage an accidental overdose and give his son a proper funeral, a service of some kind. Of course, the latter would kill his political campaign. But the thing about the George Van Horns of our world, the ones who compromised their morals—who did nasty shit they don’t feel at peace with—was that they woke up one day to discover they’d became a monster.
I myself didn’t feel like a monster. Wholeheartedly believed that the people who killed my father deserved to die. I was cruel, but I wasn’t unjust. I wouldn’t off someone from my family, or deny them a respectable burial, just to get ahead in the game.
Other than Sparrow’s mom, I reminded myself. She was still very much on my conscience, and I knew that Sparrow would never forgive me if she knew.
I dragged Flynn’s body outside and deeper into the woods. Far enough from the cabin so that in the unlikely event that he was found, no one would make the connection, but not too far, because dragging a body was fucking hard, even if he was a scrawny little junkie.
Driving him to another spot in the woods was pointless. I couldn’t get him into the Maserati and would never be able to get rid of all the evidence if I did.
After I placed him near a tree trunk, I walked back to the cabin for a shovel, then walked back into the woods and dug his grave for him. I dumped his body into the hole and buried him as best as I could, knowing I’d be better off burning the body, but somehow not being able to bring myself to do it. It was stupid. He was already dead. But my fucked-up, twisted morals kicked in.
I buried him next to her, so I would remember where he was in case I ever needed to dig him up. Everything was calculated, as usual, but it no longer felt right.
Especially not the fact that she was there, buried just a few feet away from him. Her daughter needed to know. Her daughter had to know.
When I got back to the cabin, I took a shower and threw my clothes into a small pit at the back. Looking down, I flicked a lit match between my fingers and into the pit, watching the fire race from the twigs to the fabric, the flames licking at the edge of the pit, swallowing the evidence of my sin.