My dead sister’s body thrashes so violently it has me jerking back in alarm, but I’m unable to look away. A cloudy sheen covers her light green eyes as she blinks rapidly.
Georgia, my boss’ wife, immediately poses the question to Emilia. “Who killed you?”
Indecipherable sounds erupt from my sister’s mouth, and impatience and desperation have me stepping forward—to see if my voice will draw her from the incoherent mumbling and elicit an answer. But Georgia holds up a hand, silently signaling for me to hold on to my thread of patience that’s wearing thin.
As usual, she’s right, because Emilia coughs before her raspy voice emerges. “Pinney.” When my sister falls silent, I assume that’s it. Then, in a barely audible voice, she forces out, “Find Mac. At Freebird.”
Emilia’s entire body goes still once again, and silence descends over us.
That’s it. That’s all I have to go on, but I’m determined as fuck to find whoever murdered my sister and tossed her body aside like she was trash.
Georgia meets my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I clench my jaw against the grief raging inside me. “Not your fault. Thank you for doin’ that.” Georgia didn’t have to use her ability to briefly revive my sister, but she knew I’d want some answers. Clues, at the very least.
Casting one final look at the woman lying dead at our feet—at my estranged sister who only showed up days ago—I turn my attention to Bronson.
Bronson Cortez might be one of the most feared men around because of his reputation as leader of The Scorpions, but he’s been my best friend for years. Those who don’t know him well wouldn’t recognize the sympathy in his gaze, but it’s there.
He braces his wife, Georgia, from behind, and not for the first time, I experience that twinge of envy of what these two have.
Georgia’s face is drawn from the exertion it takes to briefly revive the dead. As much as I appreciate her asking my sister who killed her, shock and disbelief war within me that this is it. I’ll never truly get to know the woman my sister became.
I’ve just been handed fucked-up excuses for clues as to how my sister died. And I’m not blaming Georgia—no way in hell, especially after she used her ability, her gift, for me. But she did warn me that the responses from the dead aren’t always clear and precise.
Damn if she wasn’t spot on.
Even though I’m fucked up with turmoil, I force myself to maintain a stone face and address Bronson. “Gonna need some time off.”
He doesn’t hesitate even a second, and my throat tightens with gratitude. “Take all the time you need.”
With a curt nod of thanks, I stride to my car at a clipped pace. From behind me, Bronson gives orders to the other men. “Get her out of here. But be careful with her.”
“Yes, boss,” comes their rapid response. I can’t bear to watch them lift her body and slide it inside the body bag. I fucking can’t.
I want to remember her the way she looked in my memories.
Like when she left me behind twenty-four years ago.
3
DANIEL
Eleven years old
“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” My sister whispers this to me in the early hours of the morning.
The silent house tells me our pathetic excuse for a dad finally passed out, surrounded by his usual pile of empty beer bottles.
When Emilia had woken me up, I froze in panic, expecting another random beating from Reggie. I’d been so relieved to see it was her instead, but the sight of her backpack and duffle bag had my stomach somersaulting with panic.
Emilia never told me she’d planned to leave, and we talked about everything—or I thought we did.
Things always seem a little less awful with Emilia around. She protects me the best she can from Reggie.
I guess I took that for granted.
“I need to get a job that pays enough money. In the meantime, try to stay out of his way.”
Still in shock that she’s actually leaving me, it takes a moment for her words to sink in. Stay out of his way? I stare at her like she’s lost her mind, because we both know that’s impossible.
We’d drawn the shortest of straws when it came to our dad. Ours was just plain evil. That’s why we didn’t call him Dad. He didn’t deserve that title. He’d lost it the first time he beat the crap out of us. We only call him Reggie.
“Please don’t leave,” I beg in a whisper as tears burn my eyes. “Don’t go.”
“I have to, Daniel.” Sadness lines her face, her own eyes filling with tears. “I promise I’ll come back for you.”
I hug her so tightly for so long that she has to pry herself loose of me. It’s because, deep down in my gut, I know I won’t see her again. If she’s smart, she’ll never show up back here ever again—at least, not as long as Reggie’s alive.
I listen to her creep silently through the house. Reggie’s snoring is nearly deafening while my silent tears soak my pillow.
6 months later
“You think you’re so smart, boy? Huh? Well, I’m gonna show you what happens to boys who think they’re better than me.”
He backhands me so hard, my neck cracks as my head snaps to the side. Instantly, I taste blood and know my teeth cut my lips from the impact.
Reggie sneers at me. “Ain’t so smart now, are ya? Can’t even defend yourself.”
Two large hands shove at my chest and slam me back against the kitchen pantry door. The handle’s edges dig into my back, and I flinch in pain while blood drips from my lip, spotting the worn floor at our feet.
“Your mama’s dead and your sister left your ass behind.” He gets in my face. His breath smells like the cheap beer he drinks all day long. “Nobody cares about you.” His mouth stretches into a slow smile, and instinctively, I know this is it.
He’s going to beat me to death.
I always figured it would happen one day. Mom died when I was four, and I’m pretty sure Reggie was beating the crap out of her long before that. As much as I hate to think it, a part of me resents her for taking the easy way out and leaving me and Emilia behind.
The monster towering in front of me slams his empty bottle against the counter’s edge, and I hate how I jump at the sound of breaking glass. When he raises his hand that grips the neck of the brown bottle, the jagged edges gleam in the light.
A sudden calmness spreads over me, and I can’t even explain it. I just know this is the moment I have to choose.
Me or him. Which one of us comes out of this alive.
His upper lip curls in disgust. “You got your nose in a goddamn book all the time, thinkin’ you’re smarter than everybody else. Your mama couldn’t even gimme a boy who was tough.” Hatred lights up his eyes. “Or one who didn’t look like he came right over the fuckin’ border.”
I don’t know what Mom saw in him, because all he does is talk crap about people who aren’t white. It doesn’t even matter that I got his eyes, and from the looks of it already, I inherited his height, too.
I remind him too much of my mom, and I’m too skinny for his liking, but that’s his own fault. He uses the cash he gets from his disability checks for beer and chips. It’s up to me to steal real food or scavenge the dumpster for bruised fruits or veggies the grocery store tosses out. Or the bread that’s gone stale and past its sell date.