Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Lucas leads the way through the warehouse district, up into the hills, and around Weston High School. He doesn’t offer any information, and I don’t know why. Are we in danger?
I peer over at him. “Who was the man who dropped off the envelope?”
We didn’t think much of some lonely guy on foot, Green Street probably having all sorts of people filtering in and out of the place every day. But now that I think about it, there was something about him. The fit of his brown leather jacket. The cut of his hair peeking out of his hood. As if the clothes were tailored to him. It’s not how most people look, except for men like Madoc and only men like Jared and Jax, because their wives pick their clothes.
“I’m not sure,” he says in a breathy voice. “I need to see something first.”
He drives over the weeds that have sprouted up through the broken road, and it looks like a lot is happening in his head, but I don’t give a shit. He can be quiet, just not with me.
“What happened in there?” I demand.
“It’s still happening.”
I growl, “Lucas.”
Dammit. What the hell is going on?
“I transferred control of the building to Farrow,” he finally blurts out. “It’s not over yet, but I can help him.”
“How?”
Why Farrow? Is that safe? And how did Lucas manage that? How are we going to help him?
I’m about to press for details, but we pass through an open, rusty gate hanging off its hinges. Rows of low buildings appear ahead in the darkness, and he pulls up closer, his headlights illuminating the large doors. Where are we?
Headlights from the others’ cars reflect in our mirrors. I lean in closer to the windshield, avoiding the glare and taking in the sight before me.
Storage units?
I had no idea these were here. Dark brown structures with burgundy-colored garage-style doors, some of them are open and empty. Others are closed and still locked. Some sit exposed with boxes or pieces of furniture abandoned inside as if they’ve been raided.
Pulling my collar back, he checks the numbers on the back of my shoulder again and continues around the corner. Everyone follows slowly behind until Lucas stops in front of number twenty-two. My heart pounds harder as I stare up at the stickers of the two twos, faded from years of sun and weather.
I study the back of my shoulder again. Two-eight-eight-four. I lock my gaze on the combination padlock still securing the unit’s door.
I shiver, thinking about whoever wrote it on me last night.
Lucas swings open his door, and I don’t wait, quickly stepping out of the car too.
“What is this?” Hawke asks, everyone piling in to see what’s inside.
Without replying, Lucas dials in the numbers, the shackle clicking free, and my breathing speeds up.
Is this his unit?
Wait, no. He would’ve had the combination already. Two-eight-eight-four adds up to twenty-two, the unit number.
Does it belong to Green Street? My brain swims with all the stuff that could be in there. Are we sure we want to know?
But as Lucas lifts the door, phones start lighting up as everyone brings up their flashlights. We all inch inside, my eyes trying to focus on everything at once.
My gaze registers a wardrobe, then flits to a trunk, tables, lamps, chairs, a piano, carpets, a mirror, books, statues, suitcases, paintings…quickly assessing what’s dangerous and what’s not. No weapons, no bodies, but plenty of storage for them. Eyeing the wardrobe again, I wander inside the unit, all of us spreading out to investigate the pieces. Turning the handle, I try to pry the door open, but can only get it cracked enough to see a sliver inside. Dresses.
Kade climbs onto a chair and checks out behind a tall bed frame, while Dylan and Aro flip through a photo album, and the others inspect various boxes and antiques.
Something feels off. If this belongs to the Dorans—or Winslet—it doesn’t seem like it belongs here. The furniture is antique, the art dramatic, and the pieces too ornate. It’s not the style of most residents in this region—blue-collar workers, farmers, and middle Americans.
I draw in air through my nose, the scent triggering a memory.
Wet, aged wood, musty like an old building.
I take in more air, noticing a subtle hint of jasmine, gardenias, coffee, rain, and sweet liquor all mixed together to create a scent cooked in humidity that I’ve only smelled once before in the only place in the world it can be made. New Orleans.
“It was Manas Doran,” Lucas says, fanning a file folder. “The man who left the envelope at the door.”
I come to his side, scanning the ownership documents to several properties, all located in Weston. I grab a picture of one young man and twin boys with a woman, whom I assume is their mother. I look at the back, reading Conor, Deacon, Manas, and Mom.