Forsaken (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #3)(22)

“You’re brave for a prisoner.”

“And you’re tolerant for a killer.”

“I told you. I’m not planning to kill you.”

“I hate that word, planning.”

I think of the bomb she set, and my temper flares as hard and fast as the fire that killed my parents. “Let me make this real damn clear,” I bite out. “No reading between the lines. If you were in any way responsible for my parents being burned alive, then you’re dead. If anything happened to Amy, and you were a part of it, you’re dead. Stand between me and Sheridan, and good luck—we’ll see where that takes you. Otherwise, you’re safe.” I slam the door, every muscle in my body burning with the fierceness of my anger that isn’t even about Gia. It’s about Sheridan. It’s about me.

Walking away, I lower the bill of my cap, feeling zero regret over my bluntness with Gia. We’re living on the edge, and I can’t afford to operate with anything but the facts. Reaching the hotel office, I hit a buzzer, and the attendant, a white kid not more than eighteen with dreadlocks and a baseball cap, enters the glass-enclosed check-in kiosk from a back room. Barely looking at me, he takes my cash payment for a room. Considering it’s five in the morning, I pay for two nights, certain we can’t sleep and take care of business in the six hours left until checkout. I keep an uneasy eye on the truck while I wait, replaying those moments on the back porch just before the explosion: the flash of light, the crackle of sound. A shiver of unease runs up my spine. Who was behind that damn explosion? I’ve tried to find out without any success, and I damn well need to know.

Finally, I’m given a key, and I return to the Ford, finding Gia still huddled on the floorboard. “At least you didn’t steal the truck.”

“I didn’t know about your family,” she says, her voice raspy, affected. As if she really gives a damn. “God, Chad, I didn’t know. I promise you, I wasn’t involved. I’ll help you. Tell me what to do and I’ll help.”

I want to believe her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I climb into the truck and shut the door. “Don’t talk. It’s only going to rub salt in wounds neither of us need irritated right now.”

“I understand.”

I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “No,” I say sharply. “You do not understand.” I drive around back to a twelve-unit building, the lot deserted except for us, which is good and bad: We’re alone, but we can’t exactly get lost in a crowd, either. Killing the engine in a spot in front of our door, I grab the bags from behind the seat. “Stay here and watch for my sign. I don’t want us lingering in the open together.” I don’t wait for her reply, exiting quickly and unlocking our room before motioning her forward.

She doesn’t miss a beat, hurrying out of the vehicle with another bag in tow and the hoodie in her hand, darting past me and inside. I follow her, kicking the door shut.

“Lock it,” I order, tossing the bags on the full-sized bed with a sunken mattress and some sort of blue blanket on top. Eyeing the window beyond a wobbly-looking wooden table, I cross the cracker box–sized room, with its scuffed walls and ugly, worn gray carpet and attempt to seal the gap in the curtains that refuse to stay shut. Grabbing one of the two chairs by the table, I force the material together, using the wooden chair back to hold it in place, and then turn on the air conditioner, which roars to life like a hundred-year-old Chevy.

Hands on my hips, I stand there a moment with my back to Gia, dreading the next few hours alone with her in this room. Wondering what it is about her that makes me want to believe her. Questioning why I never doubted Meg. Why I believed she was helpless and alone, when she was a conniving bitch.

Determined to control the here and now, I grab the unused tie hanging by the curtains and turn to find Gia sitting on the edge of the bed. She gives the tie, and my expression, one look and stands up. “What’s that for?”

“I need a shower.”

“I think there are much larger towels in the bathroom.”

My lips quirk at the silly remark. “Always a smartass.”

She inhales and lets it out, folding her arms in front of her chest. “Sorry. It’s a nervous thing. My dad said my mother did it too, and, well, you’re really making me nervous.”

Her admission feels intense and sincere in a way I don’t question as authentic, real in a way I find few people I’ve known ever are real about anything, let alone their insecurities. And yet she just made it to a man calling himself her captor. It’s a level of trust I won’t give her, and that I don’t deserve to be given. I advance on her. She backs up, hitting the mattress after one step and tumbling onto it with a yelp. I’m there before she can get up, clamping my legs around her knees. She pulls herself to a sitting position, shoving against my stomach. “You’re not tying me up.”

“It’s a necessary evil. You aren’t calling Sheridan.”

“I hate that man,” she says vehemently. “I told you that.”

“Even if I believe you—”

“Stop calling me a liar.”

“Truth or fiction, it changes nothing. Safe is better than sorry.” I reach for her hands, but she keeps squirming, desperately trying to get away. “That’s it,” I murmur roughly, shackling her wrists and laying her flat on the mattress. I follow her down, straddling her hips and pressing her hands over her head.