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“We’re here to speak to Marcus Hamilton about the disappearance of a girl he was dating.”
He narrows his eyes at E.A. “I don’t speak to reporters, so piss off before I call the cops to remove you.”
Reporters? I guess we don’t look like cops, but still. That’s kind of a specific assumption to make.
“You’ll speak to us now, or my partner will call the cops and let them know Beth Moore was last seen with you, a kid with a well-documented history of anger management issues and a serious grudge against women.”
Oh, the kid with the well documented history of anger management issues does not like that.
He sneers at E.A. “Try calling the cops, see if they care. Little sluts go missing all the time.”
He slams the door closed.
“Wow. I mean, I could tell from his social media posts that he’s entitled, but that was scary.”
“Fine!” E.A. yells. “We’ll wait out here until your parents get home and we’ll ask them!”
He really wasn’t kidding about his plan to make a scene.
I glance around, wondering if any of the neighbors are actually home.
Most of their blinds are open and there’s at least one car in a bunch of their driveways.
Rich Alphas tend to marry Omegas so they can have guaranteed Alpha and Omega children, and the kind of Omegas who marry rich Alphas are usually the academy type; women who’ve been taught to be pretty, stay-at-home wives, doing whatever it takes to please their Alpha.
I’d be surprised if no one notices us out here.
“Fuck off!” Marcus shouts back from inside. “I’m getting a gun!”
I blink at E.A.
He doesn’t look impressed.
“Did you hear that?” I ask him.
“What? Oh, right. The gun threat. He isn’t getting a one. His father’s ex-military. It’ll be in a safe, and there’s no way he knows the combination.”
“His father?” I ask.
“I read it on his class file when we were looking at that.” He turns back to the door. “Open up, Marcus! We’re not going away!”
He starts knocking again, and I start freaking out on the inside.
A kid with a temper is threatening to bring a gun out here, and E.A.’s actually trying to get him to open the door faster. This might be the most insane situation I’ve ever willingly walked into.
The door opens, and my heart stops.
For a second, the whole world seems to slow down.
I see something metal in the kid’s hand, and he still looks mad enough to murder us on his front lawn. Then, I realize what the piece of metal is, and I find out E.A. was right.
He didn’t get a gun. He picked up a fireplace poker.
A poker he’s lifting up now, and pointing at E.A.
“Leave, or I put this through your windpipe.”
“I’m not leaving,” E.A. tells him. “You wouldn’t be so afraid of a couple of overly persistent reporters if you weren’t hiding something.”
