Leaving my shoes on the table, I rise from the booth and cautiously creep toward the counter. I glimpse the waitress through gaps in the door, but she has her back to me and is focused on washing up some dishes. I creep closer, movingaround the counter until I’m behind it, and I keep walking. The till looks the same. Pressing one hand against the drawer, I quickly type in the old default emergency code and the drawer pops open with a click muffled by my hand preventing it from moving.
Nerves jump up my back, but the clatter from the kitchen doesn’t cease.
Slowly, I relax my fingers against the drawer and allow it to slowly pop open and without stopping to count, I grab handfuls of bills from the drawer and sprint from the diner without looking back.
By the time I make it two blocks over, my heart pounds and pain coils hot in my gut. I keep glancing back, expecting to see the waitress chasing me, but there’s no one. I’m alone on a quiet street with handfuls of money that I quickly stuff into my purse before anyone sees.
Fuck.
How was that more terrifying than anything else I’ve done? I’m losing my edge.
A quick call to a local taxi company gets me a ride ten minutes later, and I relax back in the seat as the car carries me far from the diner and toward the address Peter gave me. When I get there, I’m giving him a piece of my mind and then I’m persuading him to give up his share of the diamonds. Surely, these Irish criminals won’t want to kill him if they have their stuff back, right?
It’s only logical.
The taxi pulls up outside an abandoned house thirty minutes later. I overpay with a handful of bills and scramble from the car, lingering on the sidewalk until the taxi drives away. The house sags slightly to one side from age, with boarded-up windows and a single rusted railing framing the steps up to the peeling front door. I walk around the rickety gate as the fence crumbled long ago, stepping gingerly across the stone slabs.
If I get pricked by something, I’m killing my brother. Reaching the door, I knock quickly.
No answer.
I knock again. “Peter? Peter, are you there?”
Still no answer. Pulling out my phone, I double-check the address and then pound my fist on the door as all my anxiety pours into my anger. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Thirty seconds later, the lock clicks and the door creaks open. As soon as it moves, I shove my hand against the weak wood and push it wide open as two Volto masks appear in the doorway.
“Peter! About fucking time!”
22
ZIRA
“Where’s the car?” He’s grabbing my arm and hauling me inside while stepping past me and staring out into the street. “You didn’t bring it?”
The screech of his mask grates on my ears while his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my upper arm, and I wince, rolling my shoulder to try and break free. “Ahh! Peter, let go!”
“Where’s the car?”
“Let go!” Wrenching my arm out of his grip, I stumble back into the dimly lit hallway and quickly massage the ache his grip left behind. “Geez! I got a cab here. I didn’t drive.”
Peter slams the door with a clatter of the door latch and spins to face me. This time, he grabs my wrist and hauls me down the hallway and into an equally dimly lit lounge.
Empty pizza boxes and take-out containers litter the coffee table, spilling out onto the floor, where they meet another pile, half spilling out of a trash bag with a hole in the bottom. The stinkof body odor, stale beer, and something sharp stings at my nose, and dust catches in the back of my throat on my next breath in.
“My God… have you been living like this since that night?”
Peter lets go of me with a shove and crosses both arms over his chest. “If you didn’t bring the car, then what the fuck are you doing here?”
Spinning to face him, my eyes narrow as a clash of emotions collides in my chest. Not the welcome I expected from my brother, and definitely not the one I hoped for. After one last glance around at the room, I stare back up at the expressionless Volto mask.
“Take the damn mask off, Peter.”
“Where is the car?” he demands. “Don’t make me ask again!”
“I—” Hesitation clusters in my chest. “Harris has it.”
Peter straightens up slightly. “And where’s Harris?”
