Out of Love(69)

“Y-you don’t know my dad.”

“No, sweetheart … you don’t know your dad. He’s an animal that needs to be put down, but not before he suffers … the way I’ve suffered without my brother, the way Slade suffered without his dad, the way Mary suffered as a single mom. That’s three. Three lives destroyed. So I’m taking three lives to even the score. Well … two. I already took one.”

“Dad …” I choked on his name. He killed my dad.

“Not yet. He’ll be the last … after he knows I took his world. And let’s be honest … it will be a mercy killing. I honestly didn’t think he would survive after your mom’s accident. Did you know he slept on her grave for days while you were with your aunt? I watched him. I fed off his suffering. It felt so fucking good, but not as good as it’s going to feel when I deliver you, well, part of you, to him.”

The phone fell from my hand as waves of pain gripped my body, shaking me to the core. My breaths came one right after the other so quickly it felt like I wasn’t getting any oxygen at all. It wasn’t an accident. Abe killed my mom. Or …

I stepped back until the wall caught me as Slade studied me. Was he just an extension of Abe? The killer giving all the credit to his handler? I began to crumble, sliding down the wall. “Y-you killed my m-mom …” I glared at Slade and hugged my bloodied hands to my chest as my butt hit the floor.

Slade reached behind him and grabbed the gun. I jumped when he pulled the trigger, shattering his phone on the floor and ending the call with Abe while my ears rang from him firing the gun. “I didn’t.” He lifted his gaze from the gun to me, his tone eerily calm. “But it sounds like your dad put a bullet in my dad’s head, and that’s a problem, Liv.”

I didn’t—I couldn’t believe that about my dad. Some black ops group? An assassin? Then again, I thought about Jessica and her skill set that I knew nothing about until the day she fractured a piece of my innocence with her fists.

Clarity blurred.

Colors faded.

Reason and purpose for my own existence started to wither like a starved plant after months of a summer drought.

Nothing in my life was what it seemed to be just weeks earlier. Twenty-one years of lies. If you didn’t know where you came from, it was hard to know who you were—are.

“We have to go. Get up.” He aimed the gun at me, jerking it in an up motion like the threat of dying mattered to me at that point.

It didn’t.

He retrieved a bag from his closet and set it on the bed. Pulling out his holster, he secured it around his waist and filled it with the gun in his hand and another gun from the bag along with extra ammunition magazines. Then he covered everything with his shirt and nodded at me. “Get. Up.”

I didn’t.

Slade grabbed my arms near my shoulders and lifted me from the ground. When I didn’t force my legs to keep me standing, he tossed me on the bed. I felt so numb, so empty, so lifeless.

I didn’t fight him when he guided my arms around my back and tied my wrists.

I didn’t fight him when he heaved me over his shoulder and carried me downstairs with Jericho in tow.

I didn’t fight him when he tossed me in the back seat of my Jeep, gagged me, and put a black cloth bag over my head.

Jericho sat next to my head. The door closed. Minutes later, the back door opened, and the vehicle dipped with the weight of whatever he was loading into it. I closed my eyes, hearing only the residual high-pitched ringing in my ears as I prayed for death, the welcoming arms of my mom, and an existence free from the ugliness.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





Hours later, rough hands startled me from my sleep or coma … whatever state of pre-death I fell into on the long journey. Pain radiated from my abdomen to my ribs when Slade once again hoisted me over his shoulder. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, and that was the only sound I could hear.

The creak from wooden steps replaced the gravel. A familiar loamy and mossy scent seeped through the cover on my head. We were in the woods.

Screen door screeched.

Thunk. It slammed shut.

More wood creaked beneath his surefooted steps. He deposited me on something lumpy like an old sofa, the waft of musk replacing the outdoorsy scent. I started choking as my need to cough, the gag in my mouth, and the bag over my head stifled my breathing. Slade removed the bag and untied the gag in my mouth.

I coughed until my throat burned, raw and dry. My ribs ached, but not as much as my shoulders, arms, and wrists from the tie around them. Squinting against the light from the floor lamp, the rustic cabin came into focus. Dirty windows framed in cobwebs revealed nothing more than complete darkness shrouding the cabin in all directions. It must have been early morning before sunrise.

Slade hunched in front of me. “Here.” He held a water bottle to my mouth.

I took one swig, desperate for something to sooth my throat. He offered another sip, and I took it, holding it in my mouth for a few seconds before I spat it in his face. It streaked the blood crusted on his face. I did that to him. And maybe he would kill me and decapitate me, but I made him bleed first.

Drawing in a slow breath, he stood, steely eyes set on me. He turned, jerking his head for Jericho to hop on the sofa beside me. Then he disappeared around the corner to what I assumed was a kitchen. Water ran for several minutes before he returned with a wet towel and a cleaner face.