Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(3)

He offered me his hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

I shook with him. “I’m not... You shouldn’t waste time with me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Waste time?”

“You seem like a very nice guy, and I’d hate for you to expend a lot of energy flirting with me when I’m not going to be interested.”

“Ouch,” he said.

“No, not because there’s anything wrong with you. It’s because of me. I’m... incredibly broken.”

He took a drink of his beer. “We’re having the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech already? You like to skip to the end, don’t you?”

I set down the mushroom salt shaker, still smiling. I liked him. He was nice. He was good looking. I wished that could be enough. But I wasn’t ready for him, and I wasn’t sure I ever would be. “I’m sorry.”

“Bad breakup?”

“That would be an inadequate way to describe it,” I said. “The world exploded, and everything was destroyed, but no one else noticed. I was picking up the pieces, and everyone else was going about their business, acting like I should too.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”

I doubted it. I must have made a face indicating that.

“What? You don’t believe me?” he said. “I was left at the altar.”

“Ooh,” I said. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “I thought stuff like that only happened in movies.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. It was a year ago,” he said. “We were too young to get married anyway.” He took another drink. “But I understand. Too soon. Can I buy you a friendly beer, though?”

“Um...”

He held up a hand. “With the understanding that I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of you actually wanting anything other than friendship.”

I smiled wider, unable to stop myself. He was funny. He was maybe even sweet. But he wasn’t Griffin.

*

“You’ve got mail,” chirped my phone.

I groaned, rolling over in bed. Why had I ever set my stupid phone to say that every time I got a text message? It had once seemed cute, but now it was annoying. And it had woken me up. I picked up the phone on the nightstand and checked the message.

It was a picture.

It loaded, and I sat up straight, turning on the light. What the hell?

The picture was Naomi. She was tied to a chair, duct tape over her mouth, a cut on her forehead dripping blood over her face. She looked afraid. She looked hurt.

What the hell?

“You’ve got mail,” said my phone.

I jumped. Jesus.

I opened the new text.

“Tell Griffin to call this number or your friend dies.”

I dropped the phone.

No.

No, this was not happening. It had been over a year since men from Op Wraith were chasing me and trying to kill me. It had been over a year since I’d gotten the phone call from my friend Stacey. I could still hear her terrified voice on the phone, telling me that men with guns wanted me there.

I hadn’t been in time to save Stacey.

I’d never forgive myself for that. Not really.

Why was it happening again? There was no one left at Operation Wraith. Two of the heads of the operation were dead, and my father and Jolene French both had complete amnesia. There wasn’t anyone left to try to hurt me.

Except this message was for Griffin, wasn’t it?

Whoever had done this wanted Griffin, not me. Not Naomi. We were both caught in the crossfire here. And the problem was that I had no idea where Griffin was. I hadn’t seen him since February, and he’d been so angry when he left that he hadn’t bothered to give me a way to reach him.

I picked the phone back up. I looked at the picture of Naomi. I bit my lip.

Hell.

What was I going to do?

I could try calling this number and explaining that Griffin and I broke up, and that I didn’t know where he was. But I was pretty sure that wouldn’t get me anywhere. They wouldn’t believe me. They’d probably just kill Naomi.

So.

What should I do? Should I call the police?

Yes. That was the smart thing to do, right? I’d call the police. I dialed 911 on my phone.

*

“So, this Griffin guy is your ex-boyfriend?” said the police officer in my living room. He was holding my phone. There was a fire truck, an ambulance, and two cop cars parked outside my apartment. Apparently, a 911 call like this was out of the ordinary for Thomas, WV.

I nodded.

“And he was messed up with bad people?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t really know much about it.”

“You don’t know where he is.”

I shook my head.

The police were not being a lot of help. First of all, they’d called the number the texts had come from, even though I didn’t want them to. I was afraid it would mean that Naomi got hurt.

But it hadn’t caused any negative consequences. They got a voice mail that said that Griffin needed to meet Marcel in Atlantic City in two weeks.

“And you don’t have any idea who this Marcel is?” said the police officer.

I shook my head again. “I never heard of anyone like that.” It was true. He could have been someone else from Op Wraith, I supposed, but I really didn’t know. Griffin hadn’t talked about that stuff very much. It was painful for him, and I hadn’t pushed.