Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Priscilla snorts. It’s the girliest snort I’ve ever heard. Her nostrils flare a little, and she makes a high-pitched noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “And send myself up shit creek even further? No can do, señor.”
I fumble for the plan I should have polished back on my Mach. Nothing comes to mind, so I have to settle for, “I can help you if you help me.”
Another snort. “You can’t even help yourself.”
I roll my eyes again. It’s not something I do a lot, but Priscilla brings it out of me. “Who’s walking around and who’s stuck at home with a police tracker? You need as much help as you can get. Being tied to Jim Gunn is poison.”
She puckers her lips, saying nothing because she knows I’m right. I don’t speak, wanting to make her ask me what I can offer her. I need to hear her ask.
She spreads her arms theatrically. “What can you do for me, Cross Carlson?”
I press my lips together as the obvious answer comes to me. “It’s more what I won’t do. I won’t turn in the evidence I have against you, Jim Gunn, and my father. E-mails that you sent to each other about a year ago. I have them in my inbox, and I also have them printed, hidden in a few spots.” One of which is Lizzy’s mother’s house.
“I don’t believe you,” she says, but her words are an angry hiss.
I pull out a piece of paper from my wallet. Within a heartbeat, Priscilla is on me like an oversized koala bear. Her rock-hard breasts punch into my chest, and her fingernails scratch my neck as she grabs for the paper. I accidentally backhand her in the struggle, and I cringe as she falls back against the white couch. She is a terrible person, but obviously I would never intentionally hit her.
I step back, holding the paper up and pointing to her name on it. “Looks like you there.”
Priscilla arches her left eyebrow in a way that reminds me of a Disney villain. “I want to see one of the e-mails in its entirety.”
I shake my head. “But I’ll give you some details. In one of them, you and Jim Gunn mentioned something about your diamond-studded cunt.” I smirk at her, and Priscilla actually colors a little. It’s quickly followed by an unabashed grin, which I feel sure is just for show. “I’m pierced, darling.”
I’m not going to dignify that with a response. “Obviously there’s lots of damning stuff in there too. Jim Gunn isn’t very smart. He actually mentions Ceintos by name in two of the e-mails.”
I slide the paper into my jacket and fold my arms as Priscilla pales.
“That may be, but I never did.”
“You’re pathetic. Not any better than Jim Gunn—”
“This is his business, not mine!”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t change what you did.”
Priscilla’s red mouth twists into an ugly pout. “She was a little bitch. She fucked your father behind your mother’s back. You should be glad she’s gone.”
“No one deserves to be gone that way.” I want to add, except maybe you, but I lock that impulse down. I need her help. “All you have to do is tell me where you think she might be.”
“Why do you care?”
I don’t see why I should lie to her, so I don’t. “I feel like shit for just leaving her there. I found out this happened a year ago, and—”
“If the police find that out, you’ll be in trouble too.”
“I don’t care.” It’s true—I really don’t.
Priscilla rubs her forehead with her manicured hand, and her eyes meet mine. “Believe it or not…I do feel guilt at times. It was a mistake, getting involved with Jim. He brought me down. Made me worse than I really am.”
I nod solemnly, even though I’m not buying any of it.
She stands and steps close to me. Close enough that I can barely breathe for the scent of her toxic perfume. She runs her finger down my jacket, almost like she’s seducing me. I step back.
“I’m sorry about you, too, Cross. We were covering our asses, and we made a terrible decision that night.”
“Well, this is your chance to undo that. Start making better ones. Tell me what happened to Missy King.”
“That Mexican you saw in the barter house that day, the one whose gun you stole—that’s Guapo. He works for Jesus Cientos.” She pauses, scrutinizing my face, like that name might mean something to me. It doesn’t. She smiles. “He’s big-time. The leader of the Cientos Cartel. Usually he just sells the girls, but he kept Missy. He liked the little—” Her mouth closes. “He liked her. During the…time I spent in Mexico” —she must mean when Guapo and his guys ran off with her— “I found out she ran from Jesus. He treated her very well, I heard, but she wasn’t grateful. Some months ago—almost a year maybe; I’m not sure—she ran to…some church.” Priscilla wrinkles her nose, like the word tastes bad. Hell, it probably burns her tongue. “A Catholic church. It’s supposed to be neutral ground for the cartels.”