Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(50)

The ambulance that pulls in almost right behind us tells me that whatever happened, just happened. The crowd of officers over by a cluster of trees suggests this wasn’t a burglary or some petty shit like that. I’m thinking this was something homicidal. As I near them, it’s confirmed.

Like a slo-mo playback, I see the vic’s feet. She’s missing a shoe.

I say she because the one she has on is pink. All pink. If that’s not enough, the long, bleached blonde hair splayed out against the grass is my second clue.

I get a peek at her hand just before a white sheet covers her all the way up. It’s sporting the millions of bangles that clang like a drum kit symbol every time she waves.

Waved.

Holy. Fucking. Sh—

“Do you belong here?” A tall cop with no-nonsense written all over him puts himself in between me and that corpse.

I pull out my credentials. “Live here, too.”

“Okay, go ahead.” He backs off some. But not much.

I’m not concerned with him, though. What I’m uneasy with is the body lying about a hundred feet from my apartment and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Jackson, you’re white as a ghost.”

I back up a little, unable to take my eyes off the ground.

“How’d she die?” The officer who just gave me clearance doesn’t seem too keen on giving me any details. “Sorry, sir. I’m unable to share that information. Everything’s very preliminary right now.”

“Who is that?” I don’t think Green asks the question thinking I actually know the answer. I don’t even know for sure that it’s me she’s talking to. I sure as hell don’t know why I answer her.

“That’s my stalker.”

“What?” she whispers and pulls me away from the crowd. “What’s she doing dead outside your apartment?”

“You think if I knew that I’d be here right now? I—”

Another one of the men in blue walks by, and I shut the f*ck up before they get the idea I know her. They’ll figure it out soon enough. That doesn’t mean I need to hand it to them on a silver platter, though.

Something hits me, and my eyes dart up to my apartment.

“Shit.”

“What?”

I run. And I don’t give a flying f*ck if the cops think anything of it.

I take the stairs, two at a time, until I’m at my door, turning the knob. When I push it open, I don’t waste a second. “Kid!”

“Stiles!” Green calls up as she climbs the stairs.

I start searching the apartment until it’s apparent.

“Fuck me.” Fuck me, f*ck me, f*ck me.

“What is going on?” Green asks again. “Stiles?”

“The kid.”

“What kid? You mean the one you had in your car today?”

“Yeah. That kid, Green.”

“What about him?”

“He’s gone.”





HIDE AND SEEK, GANGSTER STYLE





NOT GOOD. I repeat, not good.

Bells and whistles are going off inside my head like a rogue pinball game. I stuff my hands into my pockets and pull out the keyring I never used to open the apartment door.

I didn’t need a key.

Is the room spinning or is that just me?

“Jackson, what do you mean, the kid is gone?”

Green sounds legit curious at first. While I debate giving her an answer, I sift through some options that might have happened here while I take a preliminary look around to see if anything’s missing.

A) Lilah decided to pay me a visit within the one-hundred-foot limit, surprised Jimmy, he killed her, then bolted.

That’s stupid, Jackson. The kid isn’t a murderer any more than his brother was.

B) Jimmy didn’t kill Lilah, but whoever did, saw him witnessing said murder and came after him once they were done with her.

Only there’s not a second body.

Which brings me to C) Worst case scenario, the killer has Jimmy.

“Stiles?”

This is not f*cking happening.

“Helloooooo?”

Why would anyone kill Lilah?

Poor kid.

“STILES!”

“What?” Jesus.

“I asked what you meant when you said the kid was gone?”

I search her expression for the answer to a burning question. Is she in on this? She couldn’t be. Right? Or maybe she was keeping me busy so whoever killed Lilah could what? Take the kid? Kill him? Stash the body? Only how would they even know he was here?

They’ve been following you, dumb ass.

That f*cking cruiser back at the deli.

Dammit. I should have checked the perimeter one more time.

“Are you okay?” Her eyes seem sincere to me. They always have, really, despite her smart ass and smug attitude.

I should have checked in with him tonight.

“I’m good. And what I meant is, I left him here, and now he’s gone.”

“Why was he here?” It’s a slow, deliberate question, like maybe she’s worried I’m some sort of pedophile or something. I extinguish that thought process immediately.

“He’s homeless. It was a spur of the moment thing.” Pretty much, anyway.