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“What?” I gasp, my finger easing off the trigger.
What does Abi have to do with this?
“Well, when he,” he says, flicking his head toward a seething Tristan, who has thankfully been untied and is standing near Quinn. “Up and left in a huff, we knew he was coming here.”
“You knew I was here?” I gasp, startled to have my suspicions confirmed.
“Yes, of course we did,” Phil spits, looking at me like I’m stupid.
“Then why?” I protest, my fingers clutching the gun. “If you knew where I was this entire time, why wouldn’t you just kill me? Why did you drag this entire ordeal out?”
Phil tsks me, his hand pressing his bleeding wound. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to kill you; I want to break you and all of those around you. I told you, Mia, you’re very valuable to me.”
Realization kicks in, but I don’t allow him to elaborate because I don’t want Quinn to know why he’s kept me alive. Because if he found out that Phil intends to have me go back to my old ways, Quinn would kill him, no questions asked.
But the thing is, I need him and Thomas alive to clear our names. That’s the fucked-up thing about this, which I’ve only just come to understand.
If we kill them now, how do we explain to the police that the people who we’re accusing of the crimes we supposedly committed are dead in my mother’s home?
Self-defense?
Sadly, that excuse won’t stick.
Whichever way you look at it, we need them alive until Abi’s dad can clear our names and expose Thomas and Phil for the vile human beings they are.
To the police, Phil is a hippy herbalist with a clean rap sheet, and my deadbeat dad is the father of a delinquent teen who looks totally guilty of the crimes she’s been accused of. We need Abi’s dad to come through and have solid evidence against them because who would a jury believe?
Me—a troubled teen and a high school dropout with a mile-long rap sheet?
Or Phil—the perfect social chameleon who pays his taxes on time?
Only when our names are cleared, and Thomas and Phil are rightfully accused and charged for the crimes they’ve committed, can we can dispose of these lowlife assholes.
But sadly, the only way for the police to charge them would be with their cooperation. And for that to happen, I need them both alive.
There’s no loyalty here, and I know without a doubt one would rat the other out faster than the police can say “reduced sentence for being an informant.”
And when that happens, when they’re both found guilty, cementing our innocence, that’s when I can deliver my own hand of justice.
The police can lead a blind investigation into their whereabouts, but they’ll both be dead. And they’ll be dead by my hand.
But now, because of Abi, their survival is all the more imperative.
“What have you done to her?”
“Nothing. Yet. I’ve had my guys trailing her and him,” he says, jutting his chin out toward Tristan. “So like I was saying, when he up and left, he left her all alone to fend for herself.”
Phil cackles, his voice hoarse after smoking way too many Cuban cigars throughout his life.
“You son of a bitch!” Tristan yells, lunging forward, but Quinn restrains him.
Phil snickers with a nonchalant shrug. “Not my fault you’re in love with her. The way she was all over you on the balcony made me think it was him,” he says, gesturing to Quinn, and the blood drains from my face as Quinn no doubt feels a stab of betrayal at his words.
“But hey, my bad, we beat up the wrong boyfriend.”
I now realize they thought Tristan was Quinn. With the suit and masks, it does make identifying who’s who a little difficult. But it looks as if Quinn has also taken a beating, but I don’t have time to address that yet.
“Answer the question! What have you done to her?” I yell, waving the gun in his face.
