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But the question dies on my lips as I glance around and see where we are.
I hadn’t even noticed that we’d made it back to the city, back to our old turf. It feels like it’s been months since we left it, even though it hasn’t been anywhere close to that long, and the sight of our warehouse—our home for years—as a burnt out ruin makes my breath stall.
Malice and Ransom have finally switched who’s driving, and my twin’s fingers grip the steering wheel tighter. Beside him, Ransom’s jaw is tight as we slowly drive by the building that was once ours.
The original structure is gone, burnt down to the foundation. Chunks of blackened wood and stone have been piled up to one side, as if someone started trying to clear away the mess but gave up halfway through.
More likely, someone in the area called the city to complain about it being an eyesore, but it was low on the list of priorities.
Either way, the home we made for ourselves—the place where we operated our business, the place where Willow came into our lives—is gone. When Olivia first sent us the video of it, none of us cared all that much. It was more important that we were all together and alive, and we’d made our peace with leaving our old life behind.
Now the sight of it hits me like a wrecking ball. It’s just another reminder of everything that was taken from us.
Because of Troy.
Because of Olivia.
Malice clears his throat and speeds up a bit, putting some distance between us and the wreck of the warehouse.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, voice gruff and firm. “We said goodbye to it already, and it doesn’t change anything now. We’ll get a hotel or something and keep a low profile. We just need a place to make a home base until we find Willow.”
“Right,” Ransom agrees, although he sounds less sure about it.
“Right,” I murmur.
We head for a hotel off the beaten path on the outskirts of Detroit, someplace fairly shitty. Those are always the kind of places we hole up in when we need to stay off the radar. If it has beds and internet, that’s good enough for our purposes.
This place has a sign outside advertising both free wi-fi and free continental breakfast in the morning, which I know from experience will likely just be those tiny boxes of cereal and some room temperature milk. Maybe a few pieces of fruit that are questionable at best.
“I’ll get us checked in,” Ransom says, sliding out of the car before heading inside to talk to the man behind the front desk. Malice and I follow a few minutes later, my twin hefting the backpack containing my laptop higher on his shoulder.
“Three room keys then?” the man is asking, glancing between the three of us. He looks half wary, half like he doesn’t give a shit, and Malice and I stay quiet so as not to upset the balance of that.
“That would be great, thanks,” Ransom says, putting on his bright ‘people moving’ smile, although it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Okay. You’re in two-oh-seven,” the front desk guy tells us, speaking mostly to Ransom. “Stairs are just down the hall there. Breakfast is from seven to whenever we run out or remember to start putting stuff away.”
Ransom gives him a little nod and thanks him for his help, and the three of us move off down the hall toward the stairs.
“You two get settled,” Ransom tells us in a low voice. “I’m going to go find us some food. And some clothes. We haven’t eaten in too long.”
I’m sure he’s right, but I barely register being hungry or thirsty or tired. Aside from my wound twinging, a low burn of pain when I walk or twist a certain way, I’m not really aware of any of those more human needs. My mind is just focused on the tasks ahead.
“Be careful,” Malice replies. He grips Ransom’s shoulder for a second, sharing a look with him before the two of us head up the stairs to the second floor.
Our room is serviceable, with two full size beds in the center, a TV, and a little desk and chair in the corner. I set myself up there, pulling out my laptop and plugging it in with all of the other things I need for this. Malice stalks to the window and draws the curtains closed, then walks the perimeter of the room to check it out.
Before I can lower myself onto the desk chair, he stops me.
“You should take a shower or something,” he says, his dark gray eyes meeting mine.
“If this is your way of telling me I stink, I’ll go ahead and let you know that you and Ransom aren’t much better. We’ve been in a car for over twenty-four hours,” I mutter.
Malice huffs a breath, not budging. “You’ve still got dried blood on you. You didn’t even take time to clean up after being shot.”
I realize with a jolt that he’s right. It didn’t even occur to me to care about that, and it’s one of the first things I would have done if the situation was normal.
When I pull my jacket away from my shirt, it’s still soaked through with blood, stiff and crackling from where it’s dried. I lift my shirt, examining my wound for the first time since Malice patched me up. My side is mostly clean, but blood is crusted in the stitches, and it probably needs to be disinfected.
