Rules of Survival(3)

Was he kidding? Like he could pull that crap on me? I knew better. “The police? Save it. We both know bottom-feeders like you don’t work to help the cops, not to mention the fact that they’re too cheap to pay out a hefty price. And you couldn’t care less about justice. This has to do with your weird vendetta against my mom.”

Patrick shook his head, smiling. “No, really. Someone hired me to find you—which I planned on doing anyway.” His lips twisted with a cruel sneer. “You know, because of that vendetta? Now I just have the added bonus of a nice fat check.”

“Who hired you?” I took a step back. I couldn’t go through them, and the cabin didn’t have a back door—serious design flaw, if you asked me. Weapon. A weapon would have come in handy. Anything I could use to fend them off and battle my way out the door. But unless I could somehow pillow-fight them to death, I was out of luck. “And how did you even know I was here?”

Shaun pointed at the mantel on the other side of the room. “Camera hidden inside the fake flowers. Pretty f*cking brilliant, right?” He winked. “My idea.”

I wanted to kick myself. One of the first rules Mom taught me was to be sure a location was secure. Safety first. In my rush to get in and out, I’d skipped that step completely. Clapping for him, I took another step back and shifted to my left. “You’re obviously in the wrong line of work. Ever thought of brain surgery?”

He clutched his chest dramatically, face twisted in an expression of mock insult. Annoyingly, it only made him hotter.

Patrick laughed and shook his head, eyes following my movement. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He had a point. I was basically screwed and we all knew it. Begging was still an option—one I wasn’t above at this point—but lights from outside stopped me before I could get the words past my lips. There was a car pulling into the driveway.

The other reason I’d hightailed it out of town when Mom died was that someone—presumably the someone who killed her—was also looking to stick me into the ground. She’d warned me with her dying breath. Run. Don’t let them find you. Because of that, I’d been forced to leave before finding the information she’d left me.

Information I believed would reveal her killer and clear my name.

“Please…please tell me you called for backup.” I knew even before he answered that he hadn’t. Bounty hunters worked alone. They didn’t play well with others, and they certainly didn’t share. Especially someone like Patrick.

Confused, Patrick turned to brush the thin curtains away from the window. “Those boys aren’t with me,” he said, backing away.

Shaun made a move to peek, but Patrick grabbed a handful of his jacket and hauled him backward. Mr. Ripped Jeans wasn’t happy about this and they started to argue. While they were distracted, I fell to the floor and jammed my hand under the chair, desperate to find the letter. I needed it. If my guess was right, then maybe—just maybe—I was only seconds away from getting the information that would turn my screwed up world right side up.

Just when I thought my fingers couldn’t stretch anymore, they brushed the edge of the paper. A moment later it was in my hands. Under normal circumstances I would have taken a second to appreciate the moment. It had been a long time coming and I’d gone through hell to get here. But there was no time. After ripping the envelope, I tore the paper out and skimmed the sheet. My mom’s scrawling chicken scratch, complete with bubble-dotted I’s and swirly g’s, stretched across the page, and seeing it made my chest ache a little.

Baby girl, I don’t have much time. I’ve done some bad things. Things I’m not proud of. I made poor choices and trusted the wrong people—

An explosion and the sounds of shattering glass filled the air, followed by a series of loud pops and ricocheting pings as bullets assaulted the room. I startled, jumping back and scooting along Mom’s pristine hardwood floor on my backside.

“Friends of yours?” Shaun yelled as he ducked behind the couch for cover. “Mrs. Popularity, aren’t ya?”

I made a move to join him—some cover was better than none—but a bullet hit the plaster in front of me, and I locked up dead in my tracks. Inches. It’d hit the wall inches from my face.

Luckily for me, Patrick wasn’t so skittish. He swept across the room, flying past and dragging me off the ground in one smooth move. “Where’s the out?” he barked, peering around the corner of the couch.

It took a second to find my voice. “Out? What are you—”

“The out!” he yelled, shaking me by the shoulders. I almost let go of the letter. “You spent a lot of time up at this cabin over the years. There’s no way Mel would have done that without an out. A getaway. Something to ensure you guys could bail out fast and unseen if you were ever found.”

At first, all I could do was stare. How did he know that? And Mel? What the hell was that about? I’d heard him call Mom a lot of things over the years, but Mel? Not one of them. I probably would have kept right on staring like an idiot, too, if he hadn’t given me another good, brain-jarring shake.

“Where. Is. It?”

I inclined my head toward the small dresser to the right of the front door. “Under there. Move it and there’s a tunnel that leads out into the woods about a half mile away from the house. The dresser slides back into place once the door closes from the inside.”