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My dad is dead.
The man who raised me, who taught me everything I know. How to be strong, how to drive, how to fight. The only family I have left, shot dead and stuffed in a fucking trunk.
By Sloan. Just like that.
The hope I had just minutes ago feels like ashes in my mouth now, snuffed out by the reality of what just happened. I fall forward onto my hands and knees, trying to suck in gasps of air, but it’s hard. My throat feels like it’s got invisible hands wrapped around it, cutting off my air supply. Tears fall from my eyes, splattering on the asphalt, and my shoulders shake with silent sobs.
I keep replaying the scene over and over again in my head.
My dad’s tired expression.
Sloan’s thoughtful, almost impassive face.
The freeze-frame image of Sloan aiming his gun and my dad standing there, helpless.
I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it’s impossible to forget, so vivid and fresh.
I have no idea what Sloan plans to do with the body. Toss it in the river or bury it along with all the other bodies of people who ended up on the wrong side of the Black Roses? And then he’ll be heading back to the house, to what? Tell the others what he did? Pretend like it didn’t happen?
Either way, I have to be there when he gets back or he’ll know I snuck out. He’ll realize I followed him.
It’s that thought that finally gets me moving. I manage to pick myself up off the pavement on shaky legs and stumble across the street back to my bike.
It’s a good goddamn thing this part of town is so deserted, because if anyone saw me right now, they’d be worried I was deranged. That’s how I feel when I throw my leg over my bike and start moving.
It’s like I’m in a daze, confused and cold and trapped in my own head. I can barely remember the ride back to the house, autopilot taking over to hopefully help me obey traffic laws and not cause any accidents.
I feel like I’m walking in a dream when I stow my bike in the garage and sneak back in the house, finding it just as quiet as I left it.
It was only an hour or so ago when I was sneaking out, worried about what I was going to find when I followed Sloan but not expecting anything like what I actually saw.
I go to the kitchen and splash some cold water on my face, then fill a glass and chug it. The cold water almost burns going down, and it seems like another lifetime that I stood in this kitchen making out with Rory against the fridge.
Does he know? Did he know then? He seemed like he was more focused on what happened between me and Levi, but how do I know that’s the case? Maybe he was thinking about how he knew they were going to kill my dad.
Fuck. Fuck.
There’s so much I don’t know. So much I have no way of finding out unless I come out and demand answers, and after seeing what Sloan did to Dad, that seems like a really fucking bad idea.
My head starts to clear from the daze I’ve been in since I saw my dad die, but panic starts setting in right on its heels. I leave the kitchen and start heading up the stairs toward my room when it hits me.
I shouldn’t have come back.
I can’t be here.
It’s not safe.
I don’t know what Levi and Rory know. I don’t know if they’re in on it or if this is a new plan or if this has always been the plan. My dad is fucking dead, and they could kill me next. Maybe I know too much. Maybe that was why Levi didn’t have a problem telling me things this morning—because he knew I’d never be able to use the information anyway.
Unhelpfully, my brain starts supplying me with all kinds of scenarios that end with me dead and no one knowing. Maybe Scarlett would be able to figure out what happened, but what could she do about it?
She can’t go up against the Black Roses on her own. It would be suicide. And the cops would be no fucking help.
My heart is going a mile a minute, and I’m not sure what to do. I can’t stay here, but I don’t know where to go. I should have just bolted after I watched Sloan…
After he…
Fuck. God. Fuck.
