Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to say it,” Falcon says.
“Good. I can hardly think about it, let alone talk about it. Especially since she and I are involved now.”
He sighs. “I guess I have to ask. What is Reyes doing in our old barn?”
“I went to his place in Austin. Took him down, brought him here.”
He gasps. “You kidnapped him? You?”
I grit my teeth. “Sorry I’ve fallen off that pedestal, Fal. I haven’t changed. Our lives have.”
“That’s bullshit.” I can hear through the phone that his teeth are gritted.
“You think? You’re the one who spent eight years of your life locked up for something you didn’t do to protect Eagle, who’s probably going to die now anyway.”
“Hawk…”
“Sorry. I don’t want that. You know I don’t.” He has no idea how much I want Eagle to live. “But my days as the family fixer are over, Fal. Someone is stalking Daniela, and I’m going to put a stop to it.”
“Yeah, I get it. I felt the same way when Miles McAllister had Savannah. But damn… You just broke in and dragged him out?”
“He’s alive. Bound. And yeah, I wanted answers. I thought he was behind the gifts Dani’s been getting. But…”
“But?”
“I got a call from Vinnie while I was still at Reyes’s. The DNA from the notes matches someone else. Clifford Haynes. Some registered sex offender.”
Falcon exhales. “And you’re telling me this now because…?”
“Because I don’t think Reyes sent the gifts. He’s still guilty of plenty, but maybe not this.”
“All right,” Falcon says slowly. “So where’s this Haynes guy?”
“Oak County. About forty minutes out.”
“You going to talk to him?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
I think about turning him down. Why the hell should he put his life on the line for my woman? But I’ll do better if my big brother is with me.
I rub at my forehead. Normally I’m the cool and collected one. Quiet Hawk, who thinks everything through.
Ever since I met Daniela, that version of me has gone out the window.
And I’m not sure yet if I’m happy about that or not.
The drive’s all glare and heat shimmer. The kind of heat that turns the truck cab into an oven if you’re not blasting the AC. Falcon’s quiet, which means he’s thinking.
Finally, he says, “You sure this Haynes guy’s involved?”
I rake my fingers through my hair, sighing. “I’m not sure of anything at this point. My first two suspects were dead ends. But his DNA’s on the notes. That’s enough to get my attention.”
“Any priors besides the sex offender registry?”
“Burglary. He served time for that and for child porn. He’s out now. His address is listed.”
Falcon shakes his head. “I met men like that when I was on the inside. Those kind of guys…Prison doesn’t fix them. I don’t think anything can.”
We turn down a cracked asphalt road that eventually leads us to the Haynes place.
The house is a single-story with faded blue siding set back from the road behind a patchy front yard. A chain-link fence runs the perimeter, and a rusted mailbox leans at the end of the drive.
The heat is relentless out here. No shade, no breeze. The porch boards look warped from the sun.
“Home sweet home,” Falcon mutters.
“No car,” I say, scanning the drive. “Either he’s out or he doesn’t drive.”
We climb the steps. They groan under our weight. I knock.
Nothing.
“Clifford Haynes!” I call.
Still nothing.
Falcon glances at me. “Do you think he’s ignoring us?”
“Or he can’t answer.”
I try the knob. It’s locked.
“Are you going to knock politely all day?” Falcon says.
I pull a pick from my pocket. “Of course not.”
After I work at it for a few minutes, the lock clicks open, and we step inside.
The smell hits first—stale air mixed with something metallic and faintly sweet. Not fresh. Not right.
The living room is dim, blinds drawn tight. A sagging couch faces an old TV. A coffee table is cluttered with beer cans and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Charming,” Falcon says, his voice low.
We move into the kitchen. Yellowed linoleum, peeling laminate counters, a sink full of dishes crusted with food. The fridge hums faintly.
“He’s not only a derelict. He’s a slob,” Falcon mutters.
We walk down the hallway off the kitchen. Three doors—one open to a bathroom, one to a room stacked with boxes and old electronics, and one closed.
We check the bathroom first. Rust stains around the drain, a toothbrush caked with dried paste.
The storage room is worse. Stacks of VHS tapes, some without labels, are piled on warped shelves. Falcon runs a hand over one box. “This feels wrong.”
I let out a shiver as a chill runs down my spine. “This whole place feels wrong.”
We go to the closed door. I put my hand on the knob and glance at my brother. “Ready?”
He nods.
I open it slowly.
The blinds in here are cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight. It falls across the bed…