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“Yes, we did.”
“Lilah…” He deflates. “It was either him or all of us. He told me to get you out and I did.”
I’m sure that thought will help him sleep for the rest of his life, but it does little to comfort me.
Lucy rests her hand on his shoulder and another pang strikes my gut.
I left Archer there, too. I have no idea if Myra spared him at all. I probably never will.
What’s done is done.
My ears twitch at the sound of tires rolling up the gravel driveway. Dante leaps out of his chair as I do, both of us beelining for the first weapon in sight on our way to the front door.
“Lucy, stay here,” he says, gripping his pistol. She nods and does as she’s told, clinging to the kitchen table with both hands.
We rush out onto the porch and I breathe a sigh of relief. The motor home comes to a stop near our garage with a black sedan sloppily cinched to the back of it.
“It’s Archer…” I say, relaxing.
Dante holds his weapon a little tighter and slides a bullet into the chamber.
“Dante—”
He takes wide strides off the porch. I follow close behind him all the way to the trailer door.
Archer takes one step out and throws up his hands. “Hold on…” he says. “I come in peace.”
I pause, my eyes instantly drawn to the blood on his shirt beneath his jacket. That wasn’t there before…
Dante points the gun at Archer’s face. “How did you know we were here?”
“That’s a long story and I’ll be happy to explain it, but first…”
Archer gestures to the black car behind the trailer.
I take a step back and move a little closer, catching sight of something in the window.
A body lies on the backseat.
Elijah.
Dante joins me and lowers his gun to his side.
“I thought he deserved a proper burial,” Archer says, slowly dropping his hands. “With his family.”
I lock eyes with him before my vision blurs with tears. He doesn’t blink. He just stares back at me with that urge in his eyes, the same urge that I feel to run into his arms right now.
Dante steps between us, breaking our eye contact. “Were you followed?” he asks.
Archer shakes his head. “No.”
“Were you followed?!”
“No,” he says again, calm and steady. “I went several hundred miles out of my way to be sure.”
“Hey! Get me out of here, you son-of-a-bitch! I’ll fucking slit your fucking throat, you British piece-of—”
We pause and look toward the trunk as the rapid-fire slurs continue.
