Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“What?”
“Intended to take out Danny Black’s cousin and ex-right-hand man.”
“Proof that you can never get away from that life,” I murmur walking over to the couch and lowering.
“Funny. He said the same. But more importantly, what the hell has been going on with you?”
I look down at my arm. “So Lawrence has been blabbing his mouth off?”
“No.”
I frown. And then . . . “Ollie.”
“No. Dexter, actually. He’s worried. He swung by to see me. Lawrence is a mess. He’s worried about him too. Where are you?”
I glance around James’s apartment. “Not home,” I say quietly, giving him an answer without actually answering.
“Who is this guy, Beau?”
What can I say? An escape. I can’t tell Nath I have no idea who James is. He’ll think I’m certifiable. I’m pretty sure Lawrence is a whisper away from helping my father send me back to that hellhole they call a hospital. “He’s my business,” I retort with conviction I’m not feeling.
“Sure.” Nath murmurs. “Coffee? We need to talk.”
I’m up from the couch in a beat. “Mom,” I breathe. “What did you find out?”
“Just tell me where you are. I’ll pick you up.”
Once again, I glance around James’s apartment, my mind working fast, refusing to divulge that information to my friend. “I’ll meet you. Where are you?”
“Ziff Ballet Opera House.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Dead judge.”
“At the opera house?”
“No, at the apartment block opposite. Like I said, dead bodies everywhere. Meet me at our usual place. Half an hour.” He hangs up, and I stare at the city through the glass, my head set to explode. And I inhale, things seeming to click in my brain as my cell falls from my hand, hitting the floor at my feet with a loud clatter. Visions. Visions of James, of the opera house, of me restrained to the chair while he disappeared for twenty minutes. Of Goldie carrying the black case and slipping through a restricted access door. Of the shell casing under the chair.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, the onslaught attacking me hard, rolling through my head relentlessly, making it spin. I lower down to the couch. Glance over my shoulder to the stairs. My head pushes the shell casing to the forefront.
If you leave, I’ll hunt you down and bring you back here.
I look down my front, to my body still in James’s clothes. Then to the door. And my arm. I can’t drive. Perhaps an automatic, but not a stick shift. “Fucking hell,” I curse, standing, swiping up my cell from the floor and heading upstairs. I find my clothes on the bathroom floor. Still wet. The universe seriously doesn’t want me to leave James’s glass box. My cell rings, and I look at James’s name dominating my screen. I answer. Say nothing.
“Don’t leave, Beau,” he warns quietly, and I look up and around, searching for the cameras.
“Tell me who you are.”
“Tell me you won’t leave.”
“I’m not bargaining for the identity of the man I’m fucking.” I go to the bed, perch on the side, and remove my sling, awkwardly stripping with only one hand. I draw my jeans up my legs inch by inch, alternating between each leg, falling to my back and wriggling to help me get them up to my waist. The button fly is impossible, but the wet denim is tight around my ass, keeping them up. I slip my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and spend too long fastening a couple of buttons, hissing each time I twist my arm, before replacing the sling. Just looking at it angers me. The restriction. The pain.
My cell rings again and I ignore it, fetching my shoes and keys and leaving, my heart in my throat. The ride down in the elevator feels like it takes years, plenty of time for me to click the fucked-up puzzle into place. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my head bombarded with every tiny detail I need to reach an unthinkable conclusion.
The moment the elevator doors open, I’m greeted by Otto, his wide frame filling the double glass doors onto the street. He gives me a look to suggest he’s not up for any fun and games. “Be wise, Beau,” he says, his voice full of warning. I keep my eyes on him as I stand on the threshold of the elevator, my memory providing me details of every inch of this lobby. Where the desk is. The mirrors on the wall. The lights on the ceiling. The chairs and how they’re positioned.
And the fire escape door to the left.
I bolt, running as fast as my legs will carry me to the fire door and pushing my way through, ignoring the searing pain in my arm from moving so fast and abruptly.
“Beau!” he bellows, his big feet stomping after me. I stop, just for a moment to assess my options. There’s only one.