Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Hey!” I yell, running out into the road, aiming my gun, trying to read the license plate. The car speeds around the corner. “Fuck!” I yell.
“James!” Beau screams, forcing me back to her. I find Otto at the door, and I reel off the license plate number as I pass him. “Find her.”
“On it,” he says, going straight to his phone.
I find Beau still rocking back and forth, looking down at Burrows in her lap, the noises coming from him unbearable. I should finish the fucker off. Not to put him out of his misery, but to put Beau out of hers. I slowly start to aim, get ready to shoot, my eyes passing between his and the back of Beau’s head, her tears splashing all over his face.
“I’m sorry,” he garbles. “I’m s-orry, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.” They’re his last words.
His eyes close and he goes limp, relieving me of the job, and I let my gun drop to my side on an exhale as Beau’s sobs ramp up another notch. I can’t bear to hear her cry. I dip and remove her, carrying her to a chair and sitting her down, checking her over. I see a mark at the top of her arm. A small puncture. “Beau?” I ask, wanting to shake her. She stares blankly forward, her eyes dead. Black pits of nothing. Will she recover from this darkness? I take her cheeks in my palms, desperate for her to see me. “Look at me.”
She does, and I withdraw, her face expressionless. “The woman,” I say.
“His girlfriend,” she says robotically. “She showed up.”
I frown. I thought Burrows said she was practically living here. “And?”
“I don’t know. She screamed. She yelled. She ran.” Her eyes find me, and I hate the infinite emptiness I see. “My dad,” she says on a whisper, her voice wobbly. “My dad’s name was in the box.”
I exhale shakily, looking up when I detect movement by the door. Otto looks as grave as I expect I do. Jesus fucking Christ. Burrows and her father?
I pull her into my chest and hug her tightly, looking up at the ceiling, cursing that motherfucker to hell and back.
It’s over.
But it feels like my challenge has only just begun.
41
DANNY
The TV is on. I’m not watching it. Every sound in the house gets my attention. And Rose’s, who’s curled up in my side, pretending to relax too. It’s hopeless. James and Beau got back past midnight last night. Beau looked like death. James looked like he’d been through hell. They had, from what he told me while Doc checked Beau over and James necked a few needed vodkas. I called Higham to deal with Burrows’s body. Otto has been non-stop trying to find out who this lawyer is that Burrows was seeing. The Ford was a rental. I expect he’ll have a name and address shortly. Oliver fucking Burrows? The amount of times we have been in a room with that fucker.
I peek down at Rose. She’s looking at the screen. Not watching though. Frankly, my time is of better use elsewhere at the moment, and I know she’s thinking the same. Neither of us want to be the one to speak up.
I sigh, breaking away and getting to my knees in front of her. “As much as it’s been lovely sitting here pretending to relax, I would much prefer to do this another time when I haven’t got a million fucking questions on my mind.”
She smiles. It’s small. “I should go check on Daniel and Beau.”
I nod, kiss her, and get up. “I’ll be in my office.” I head that way, and the moment I’m in there, Ringo pours me a Scotch. I show him my gratitude with a smack on his shoulder. Brad’s shaking his head from his seat at my desk, still looking a bit shellshocked. “Where’s James?” he asks.
The man with all the answers we need. “Where do you think he is?” I pace up and down, my head ringing. “Higham’s sorted Burrows.” Poor bloke. He’ll definitely be retiring soon. “Fuck knows what Burrows did with Amber’s body.” That’s a worry. My wife killed the ex-in-house whore, and I have no way to ensure the body is never found to protect Rose. What a fucking mess.
The door to my office opens and James walks in. He looks fucking awful. “Rose is taking some tea up,” he says, going straight for the vodka. I look at Brad, who looks at Ringo, who looks at Goldie.
“How is she?” our she-warrior asks. She has more balls than any man in this room.
James laughs, increasing the uneasiness surrounding us. He turns, armed with a full glass, and toasts the air. “Mourning the death of her corrupt ex-fiancé while her current one stands here drinking himself into an oblivion wondering what the fuck this means for him.”