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The door is unlocked so I don’t bother to knock as I push it open.
I shouldn’t have bothered trying to be quiet because there isn’t anyone in the entryway of the living room. The house is quiet, but I know it’s not empty.
They’re all in the basement.
A shiver of anticipation makes my heart beat painfully hard in my chest. My hands squeeze into tight fists as I will them to stop shaking.
The basement door is easy enough to find now that I know to look for it. It’s unlocked, just like the front door had been.
It’s as if it never occurred to the Havoc Boys that someone would have the nerve to interrupt their silly little rituals.
My steps are nearly silent on the concrete stairs leading to the basement, thank God they aren’t made of wood. The light is on, which confirms they’re already down here.
The basement itself is more mundane than I thought it would be, filled with dusty boxes and old furniture. It looks the same as any other basement, full of old storage and abandoned rubbish.
Then I see the door.
If this were a horror movie, louder members of the audience would be shouting at me to run. This is the moment when the heroine does the stupid thing that makes her death inevitable. Nobody sympathizes with the dumb bimbo who doesn’t know when to get the hell out of the murder house.
There are half a dozen guys behind that door, and the most important thing they have in common is a shared desire to see me disappear.
Once the door closes behind me, there won’t be another way out.
Every cell in my body screams at me to run for the hills.
But I have to do this.
Those words keep running through my head like a mantra.
I have to do this.
I have to do this.
I have to do this.
If Drake is actually playing a long con, getting me here alone in Havoc’s little den of iniquity in the middle of the night would be the perfect opportunity to finish me off. Someone has already tried to kill me once.
The backroom must be soundproofed because I can’t hear anything beyond the door. My footsteps echo off the exposed concrete flooring, heels clicking as loudly as gunshots in my ears.
Maybe no one is even here.
The brief relief that spikes through me at the thought feels like a betrayal of everything I’ve tried to be up to this point.
It’s time to put on some big girl panties and do this.
I’ve dressed for the occasion, nerves making me impervious to the cold. A short, leather skirt matches the shiny black of my tights. The lace-up boots that I’m wearing rise above the knee, but have a sturdy enough heel that I can run in them if I have to.
Or kick the shit out of someone.
The tight, florescent pink top with glittery strands shot through it is a turtleneck but it’s cropped well above my belly button. Another inch higher and the shirt wouldn’t hide the butterfly tattoo on my ribcage, but I’m willing to take that risk.
The only thing protecting me from the cold is my signature black leather jacket.
I’m about to raise more than just a little hell.
Feeling emboldened, I do the only thing that makes sense in a situation like this one. I literally kick the door open like I’m on an episode of Cops.
The door hits the wall on the other side, banging loudly enough to echo through the room. A dozen incredulous faces turn to stare at me, like a group of deer caught in the headlights of a passing car.
