Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(13)

Blinking rapidly, he nods.

I shove him back into his chair, and he damn near falls right out of it, alarmed. Man, you don’t even know how much I want to shoot him in the crotch right now, just pump bullet after bullet into the man’s puny balls.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Detective Fuckface,” I say. “Next time, though, you might not like me so much.”

“See, that was a threat,” Seven chimes in, getting to his feet. “I heard it that time.”

I laugh, walking out, leaving the precinct without bothering with anybody else.

Stepping outside onto the sidewalk in front of the precinct, I pull the small tin from my pocket to grab a joint.

“Uh, boss,” Seven says, pausing beside me. “Might not be the best place to light up.”

I shrug that off, lighting it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for a moment before saying, “What are they gonna do, arrest me?”

“Probably.”

I take another hit of it, nodding, before strolling away from the entrance, heading to where the car is parked. I lounge in the passenger seat, steadily smoking, letting it soothe my nerves and clear my mind as Seven drives. The windows are rolled up, so he’s probably getting a bit of a high, but he doesn’t complain about it.

“He saw the kid,” I say after a moment, “which means Aristov kept her around here.”

I can feel Seven’s gaze flicker my way as he says quietly, “His refrigerator.”

His refrigerator.

What the fuck?

“Seriously? You think he’s keeping her in his refrigerator? Jesus Christ, Seven, who is he, Jeffery Dahmer?”

“No, I’m not saying he... you know. But when we were at his house, when I went to the kitchen to wait... there was a picture on the refrigerator. A drawing, stick figures and a house. You know, stuff kids draw.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that before now?”

“No,” he admits. “I didn’t know we were even looking for a kid. You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t realize it was important.”

I’m thinking about that as we head back into Queens, approaching my house, my gaze steadily watching the mirrors, making sure nobody is following us. Can never be too sure. It’s bothering me, what Seven just said. “How many stick figures?”

He pulls into my driveway, casting me a curious look. “What?”

“How many people were in the drawing?”

“Uh... two. A guy and a kid, it looked like.”

Shit.

I sit there, even after he cuts the engine to the car, staring out the windshield at my house. It’s after sunrise now, which means Scarlet is probably awake in there, roaming around.

“What are you thinking, boss?” Seven asks.

I’m thinking life is going on without Scarlet, the world is still turning, and that’s going to hurt the fuck out of her. You see, that’s the thing about grief... it feels all-consuming. It makes it feel like time stops, because for you, it does. Life as you know it ceases to exist, but for everyone else, it just keeps going on. And sometimes, you know, if it stops for too long, there’s not much chance of you ever catching up.

Because by the time your world moves again, everyone else is already too far gone.

“Thinking I might make some pancakes this morning,” I say. “Maybe some bacon, too.”

Seven follows me inside. The moment I open the front door, music greets me, rattling through the house from upstairs. Tupac. I make my way up there, the noise blaring from my brother’s room, loud despite his door being closed. I’m pretty sure I know what other noises the music is drowning out, so I don’t bother him, instead strolling over to my room.

The door is cracked open, and I push it further, leaning against the doorframe.

A smile slowly turns my lips.

Scarlet’s making my bed, dancing around as she flings sheets across the thing, trying to get the corners to stay put but they’re a bitch to secure. Too big T-shirt, lacy panties, and a pair of socks tugged damn near to her knees is all she’s wearing, her hair all over the place. I Get Around. She tries to rap along to the song, only knowing half the words, fucking up the rest by just making shit up.

Her eyes shift my way after a moment, and she startles, the singing stopping as she freezes. It only lasts a few seconds before the chorus kicks back in and she shrugs me off, singing along again as she finally gets the fitted sheet into place, moving on to the rest.

I say nothing, just watching her. The song changes to Hit ‘Em Up. She knows even less of his one, spewing out part of a line every now and then, violent and vulgar, so damn out of place with her honeyed voice that I laugh.

“You laughing at me?” she asks, cutting her eyes my way. “That’s foul.”

“It’s cute,” I say, “you trying to sound hardcore.”

She scowls as she struts over to me, pausing when we’re toe-to-toe, not even hesitating as her arms go around me, her hands meeting at the nape of my neck, fingers running through my hair.

She stares me dead in the face, her expression stone cold serious as she says, “I will cut a motherfucker.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I tell her, leaning over, kissing her. “My wicked little belladonna, beautiful, deadly, so tempting to keep tasting but so goddamn toxic every touch is just too much.”