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I pull out my phone and call Priscilla. It rings four times before I'm sent to voice mail.
Shit.
It was a stupid move, maybe. I’ve never called her for a booty call before. I hoped that wouldn’t occur to her. I hoped she’s invite me over, and I could confront her ass—get my hands dirty before they get cuffed.
But I don't get an answer.
I slump down in my desk chair and pour myself another glass of bourbon. West Bourbon. Truth is, I find the shit a little bitter. How's that for a secret?
I’m comforted by the familiar warm glow in my belly, and I call Priscilla again. This time I'm sent to voice mail after one ring.
Shit!
I'm up and pacing, thinking about Rita. How if everything hits the fan, It could lead to Rita. I know of at least one person who knows the truth—one of them is Libby Bernard, who, considering her new job at Marchant's ranch, might have a more personal reason to want to do me in, if she suspects I hurt Sarabelle—and there may be more. I think my father's kept it quiet, but you just never know.
I prop my cheek against my palm and try my best to think about something else. But all I can think about is handcuffs. I've been cuffed one time before, for getting into a bar fight at the Wynn a few years ago. I still remember how much I hated the feeling.
Made me feel small hands around my wrists and fingernails pinching my sides. Which made me feel the sting of getting slapped, hear high-pitched curses in a voice that haunts me still. "Piece of shit! You little bastard!"
And fuck it, that calls for another glass.
I'm halfway on the road to plastered when my cell phone rings again. I see Marchant's name and decide to save myself the headache of repeat calls by simply answering the first one.
"Yello."
Marchant's voice sounds tight. "How you doing, man?"
I rub my eyes. "I'm doing. Sleeping beauty's upstairs." I laugh, because I want her so much I'm hard even now, half drunk.
There's a long pause, during which I expect Marchant to ask about my semi-drunkenness. Instead, he says, "You haven't heard from Dave yet?"
"Just a little while ago."
"So you don’t know?"
"Know what?" Through the haze of liquor, I feel something prickly and cold. There's silence on the other end, and I want to come through the phone and throttle him. "Know what, dickhead?"
"Sarabelle is dead." His voice cracks. "They found her in San Luis with one of your cuff links in her hand."
Chapter Thirty
~ELIZABETH~
My phone rings a few minutes after Hunter leaves, and it's Suri—sobbing. The first thing that comes to mind is Cross, so my heart is in my throat when she says, "HE'S AWAKE!"
"Holy crabcakes! Are you kidding me?!"
She isn't.
Cross woke up two and a half hours ago—with Suri in his room. She was holding his hand just before the end of visiting hours and reading him a magazine about vintage motorcycles.
The news makes me so excited, I actually shriek, then promptly sit down on the bed, because my knees are shaking.
“Suri, I want every freakin' detail.”
"The last day or so, he was different,” she says. “I didn't tell you because it wasn't something I could explain, but he was looking around the room some and sometimes he seemed...uncomfortable or something. I would look down at a book and then back up and it seemed like he had shifted. I don't know, it's hard to explain.
"Then tonight he made this choking noise, and I thought something was wrong so I pushed the nurse button, and as soon as I did he said my name! I was worried it was a fluke, but he's still awake now and they're checking him over. They’re even going to give him orange soda.” Her voice breaks on the word, and I sink down in a chair. “Nanette said he might be asleep by the time I get back, but they were doing some man stuff so I didn't need to be in there and I just had to tell you. Am I interrupting anything?"
