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A quick search of property records shows he owns a house in Isleton.
But there’s also a separate plot of land in a county three hours away, which, according to the deed, was purchased a year ago.
I drum my fingers on the counter.
My instincts scream at me as I rewatch the footage from the café.
I need to pay John Briggs a visit.
10
SKYLAR
I’m sick.
At first, I think it’s from whatever is in the food John gives me, but it’s deeper than that.
It’s suppressant withdrawal.
I’ve only experienced it once—back when I went on a trip with Tammy and April to Mexico and I forgot to bring my pills.
I thought it was fine to go a week without them until the chills and night sweats started.
April just about slapped me upside the head and dragged me to a pharmacy.
But this time is different.
It’s hitting harder.
I’m certain I have a fever. My back is drenched in sweat, but I’m freezing.
As far as I know, you can’t die from suppressant withdrawal.
But a fever can definitely kill me.
I lose all track of time.
When John comes into the bathroom, he slams the tray of food down on the counter and practically falls to his knees to look at me.
But I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want those crazed, dilated pupils on me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting my chin up.
I close my eyes.
There’s no point in telling him. He won’t give me suppressants.
My blood is apparently too valuable without it, and if he’s addicted to O like I think he is, he wouldn’t dare mess with the formula’s potency.
Looks like I’m going to die from the fever, then.
Then he won’t get his precious drug anymore.
I chuckle.
“Hey.” A light slap to my face, and my eyes snap open. “Hey, hey, wake up. Don’t go to sleep.”
I swallow thickly. “I’m not,” I slur out. “My head hurts.”
