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“You’re a little punk, you know that.”
“Sucks to have someone all up in your business, doesn’t it?”
His lips quiver with rage. “I’m going to fucking bury you, Cohen.”
“I didn’t take Sylvia, Johnny. I don’t know where she is. I’m telling you the truth. So back the fuck off me and let me live my life.”
“Doesn’t matter if you took her or not. You of all people should know that—I sent you away once, I’ll do it again. I’ll find an angle.”
“Not if everyone in town knows you fuck an illegal immigrant in your spare time.”
He lunges forward, shoving me backward.
Rage consumes me.
“Do it,” he hisses, fists up. “Punch me, you fucking pussy.”
My heart drums against my ribcage. My fingertips tingle.
“Do it.”He shoves me again.
This time I trip over a rock and fall to the ground.
I see red.
I surge to my feet, lunging forward, and grab his shirt collar just as he takes a step back. I twist the thin fabric, yank him to me.
He gasps for air.
“You’re not worth it.” I shake him like a rag doll. “You’re not worth it, you little shit.”
34
Rhett
Itake a different route to Sylvia’s house, looping around town twice, dipping in and out of side streets along the way. Neither Stroud, nor anyone for that matter, is following me, but I must be sure.
A new sense of urgency grips me. Stroud realizes now that I can’t be baited, that I’m not stupid, and that I will stand up to him. More than that, he knows I know his little secret. Therefore, sending me back to prison has now become his number one priority. His ego is bruised, and I will bear the consequences.
Beads of rain begin to dot the windshield as I turn into Sylvia’s driveway. The morning has grown darker, an ominous gray mist settling in the woods.
A fresh layer of leaves covers the yard. The trees are almost bare now, resembling arthritic witches’ fingers curling around the roof.
The rain turns into a steady downfall the moment I step out of the truck.
Ducking my head, I slowly circle the house, checking for new tracks or signs that anyone has been by since my last visit—including Sylvia herself. A part of me is simply waiting for her to return. Shopping bags in hands, a grin on her face, a fresh suntan from her mini-vacay she forgot to tell anyone about.
Using the spare key I’d pocketed earlier, I unlock the back door and step inside. I can tell instantly that no one is here. The same stale scent sits on air, so still it’s like wading through mud.
I take a quick run through the house—just to be sure—then step back outside and make my way through the curtain of rain to the mailbox. It’s the only thing I didn’t check yesterday, and I’ve been beating myself up about it.
The rain pours off my nose as I yank open the box. There is a surprisingly large amount of mail considering Sylvia is the only resident at the home.
I stuff the stack under my drenched T-shirt, jog back into the house and dump the envelopes onto the kitchen table.
A puddle of rainwater gathers underfoot as I sift through the mail. Bills, solicitations, and one long white envelope that sticks out like a sore thumb. It is addressed to Sylvia in typed font—not handwritten—and is stamped, but there is no return address.
Another letter—just like the ones she’d received that started this whole mess.
