by Eva Ashwood
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
8
The silence in the car lasts only until we turn out of the driveway. The squad cars drive off back toward the station, and we turn in the other direction.
We’re less than half a block away from the Montgomerys’ mansion when Gray, Declan, and Elias each let loose a stream of curses. The guys and Max are pissed as fuck, almost just as pissed as I am. Gray slams his hand against the steering wheel, and Declan punches the door beside him. By some unspoken agreement, both he and Elias ended up sitting in the back with me—almost like bodyguards. Max is up front, her fingers twisting in her lap with anxious energy.
“The police aren’t going to do shit,” Elias growls. “That’s clear enough. Either Detective Banning is in Alan’s pocket, or everyone is just unwilling to believe that someone as respected and well-connected as a Montgomery could do something like this. Bullshit.”
I hate that he’s right, but I know that’s at least part of why today went the way it did. What if I was accusing someone poor and unconnected, just a normal person with a normal job and a normal life? Would the cops take my case seriously then?
Gray’s hands tense and flex on the steering wheel as he keeps his gaze set on the road ahead. “Even if Alan doesn’t have that cop in his pocket, people are still scared to go against him. They risk their jobs, their livelihoods. Alan has so much goddamn power, he’s created a network where he can influence almost anyone around him—for good or for bad. So of course these assholes aren’t going to risk pissing him off.”
“There has to be something we can do,” I say, chewing my lip in frustration. I knew the police might not be much help, but I didn’t think they would be no help. “If the cops won’t even pursue the case, then that’s a fucking dead end. We’re on our own in this. Just us against Alan.” My jaw clenches. “Fuck.”
I’m not one to give up easily. I’m not one to back down. But when the problem seems as vast and wide and unsolvable as this? It feels like we’re losing the war before we’ve even had a chance to fight.
I know that Gray, Declan, and Elias each come from money. They’re all wealthier and more connected than I am. But even their families don’t wield the same kind of influence Alan does. Going up against him is as dangerous for them as it is for me.
But we can’t let that stop us.
“The only way we stop Alan is to take him down entirely.” Declan nods decisively, as if he’s read my thoughts. “We take down Alan and his entire fucking empire. We take down Cliff with him and end that threat against Soph. This goes beyond just looking for some shit on Cliff to hold him off Sophie’s ass. Don’t you get it? This is war now. We need to tear him down completely. Not just for a little bit. Forever.”
His words send a chill over my skin.
War.
That was the last fucking thing I planned on when I came to Hawthorne, but I don’t see another way out of this. The only other option I have is to run, and I have the horrible feeling that if I start doing that, I’ll never stop. I’ll just keep running and running until the past I’m just starting to remember catches up with me.
I won’t do that. I’d rather die than do that.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not alone. I have the Sinners fighting at my side, protecting me, ready to fuck up anyone who tries to harm me.
“Going to the police wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Declan continues, nodding as he thinks. “There’s some protection in it, if only a little. At least it’s on record now that Sophie called the cops on Alan and they looked into it, even if it came to nothing. A police report exists that includes Sophie’s testimony saying Alan abducted her. So if he comes after her right away—tries to hurt her or kill her—it’ll draw unwanted attention to him. Their names are connected now, on paper.”
“So that means he probably won’t try to abduct you again. At least not right away,” Elias adds, shooting a glance at me. Then he looks over my shoulder to catch Declan’s gaze. “That doesn’t mean she’s safe, though.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Especially since Reagan doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo about keeping things under wraps or being subtle. Fuck, she’s already tried to kill me multiple times. Alan straight-up told her that abducting me was a mistake, but she’s…” I grimace. “She’s so in love with him, some kind of sick and twisted obsession, that I wouldn’t put it past her to try again anyway. She thinks she’s helping him.”
As I speak, I think about going back to my dorm room all alone. Hawthorne’s campus is so fucking swanky and expensive that most of the dorms are single-occupant. They’re more like full apartments than classic dorm rooms, and I’ve always been happy about having a space all to myself.
Suddenly that luxury doesn’t seem so luxurious anymore. I cringe inwardly at the thought of sleeping there by myself.
The guys spend the rest of the drive asking me questions, hoping that something will bring up more memories that could help me convict Alan, but I come up blank. All I know is what I’ve already told them. I remember being in the bunker when I was younger. I remember Alan’s face looming over me. I remember trying to escape, and I remember Reagan being there, a little kid just like I was.
There’s still a lot missing. Too many gaps still exist in my memories, leaving me with no idea why I was in that bunker as a child.
But maybe if I paint enough, think enough, dream enough… something will come up. Anything that could help bring the entire Montgomery family down. Not just Cliff, not just Alan—but everyone who is involved with that twisted, fucked up monster.
When we finally pull into the school parking lot, I catch sight of Caitlin and Gemma getting out of her car. They must’ve gone off campus for food or something. She sees the five of us and casts us a withering glare before turning the other way to head toward the dorms.
My jaw tenses when I realize Reagan isn’t with them.
I mentioned her in my police report, but even if the police bother to investigate her at all after totally dismissing Alan, I highly doubt they’ll arrest her for anything. As I’m quickly learning, Alan seems to have the power to make shit like this just go away, and if it means protecting himself, he’ll protect Reagan too.
Maybe she ditched classes today like I did, nursing the injuries I gave her, but I doubt she’ll stay gone forever.
She’ll be back. And I’m certain she still wants to kill me.
9
By the time we get back to the girls’ dorms, Max looks about as exhausted as I feel. After all, she was kidnapped last night too. I still hate thinking about what could’ve happened to her just because Reagan wanted to get to me.
I give her a tight hug after we walk her back to her dorm room, and she squeezes me back just as fiercely.
“Be smart,” she tells me as she pulls away. “And be careful. Call me if you ever feel unsafe. I’ll sleep on your couch and kick ass when I need to. And I’ll do what I can not to get you dragged into any more danger.”
I try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. My emotions are so raw that it’s impossible to fake them at this point. “It wasn’t your fault, Max.”
“I know. It’s that crazy bitch Reagan and that asshole Alan.” She nods, but her eyes shimmer a little as she disappears behind her door, likely wanting to crawl into a shower and then bed.
I stare at the door for a few seconds, then let out a quiet sigh as I glance at the guys. “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”
Elias nods. “She will be. She’s the second-toughest woman I know.”
“And she’s not in danger anymore.” Declan’s deep brown eyes are serious as he steps closer, catching my chin in his hand. “The worst is over for her, and Elias is right. She’s strong. She’ll bounce back from this after she gets some sleep and has time to process it all. You’re the one you should be worried about.”
I am.
I’m scared shitless. Not just for myself, but for the people
I’ve come to care about. The ones who are getting pulled into this insane, twisted mess with me. How am I supposed to protect them when I’m not even sure I can protect myself? I’ve never felt helpless before, but against Alan Montgomery, I don’t know how the hell I can possibly win.
Saying all of that out loud will make it too real though, so I don’t respond to Declan’s remark. Instead, I just turn and start walking down the hallways toward my own dorm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Gray stops me in my tracks with just his voice.
I glance behind me. “Um. Back to my room.”
I figure I’ll shower again, shove a bunch of furniture against my door, down several shots of whiskey, and try to pass out. Try to pretend for a little while that none of this is real—that my life as I know it isn’t over.
“It’s not safe for you there,” Gray says, watching me steadily. He crosses the small distance between us, his arms coming up to cage my elbows. “Too risky. Especially with Cliff on campus, and Reagan.”
Elias nods, his expression as serious as Gray’s. “She might be lying low for now, but she tried to kill you, Blue. She wanted to kill you. You said it yourself.”
“And Alan knows that you remember,” Declan adds. “Even if going to the cops gave us a bit of insurance against him, he’s not gonna rest until he’s sure he’s safe from exposure. He may be the big bad wolf, but he’s afraid of you. And that makes him even more dangerous. We’re not going to let you stay alone in your dorm anymore. It’s too damn risky.”
“Okay.” I nod, because I know he’s right. About all of it. “Then can I crash with one of you guys?”
For the first time since I showed up at his parents’ house this morning, I see genuine humor in Declan’s eyes as he cracks a smile. “Aw, come on, Soph. I think we can do a little better than that.”
I frown in confusion, glancing from him to the other two men. “What are you talking about? What do you have in mind?”
As it turns out, what Gray and the rest of the guys have in mind is a lot more permanent than me crashing with any one of them in their dorm rooms.
Instead, they help me pack a large duffel bag and all of my art and school supplies before we climb into Gray’s car again and head off campus—to a house that they apparently now own.
It’s empty when we get there, but movers start bringing furniture and other things in.
“You… when did you get this? How?” I stare around me in shock, trying to absorb the fact that sometime between my arrival at Declan’s house and this moment, the guys bought this place.
Gray shrugs, as if it’s not really an incredible feat at all. “We talked about it before we headed to the police station. It just makes the most sense. All of us want to be with you, and we don’t want you to have to pick which dorm you want to stay in. You’re safer with all of us watching out for you, and with Cliff and Reagan on campus, I don’t want you sleeping anywhere near the dorms.”
Holy shit. He’s thought about this. They all have. As fast as it happened, it wasn’t some kind of impulsive snap decision. They’re really serious about it.
And although even as recently as a few weeks ago, I might’ve freaked out at the thought of moving in with the Sinners, I can’t find any of the panic I expect to feel inside my chest.
All I feel is… relief.
Relief that I’ll be close to them. That we won’t be separated. Not just for safety, but because the world seems right when we’re all together.
The place is huge, and way nicer than the dorms, which were already fancier than most places I’d ever lived before. It has five bedrooms, though I’m not sure how often I’ll actually be sleeping in my own unless they’re all away for the night—something I suspect won’t happen until Alan’s been taken down. There are several bathrooms, a large kitchen, a living room and dining room, and a broad balcony overlooking the backyard.
Between the sleek design of the place and the gorgeous furniture that keeps getting brought in, it’s definitely the nicest place I’ve ever lived, and it bowls me over.
I’ve seen Gray and Declan’s family houses. I know how rich they all are, but I’ve never seen them flex it like this, use their power to make something as big as this happen.
It’s mind blowing.
But if they can do this, I realize suddenly, if they can accomplish this all in one day because of their wealth and power, how much more can Alan do in a day?
Despite the safety and protection I feel with the Sinners on my side, I can’t help the ripple of fear that rushes through me.
10
I’m in the bunker again, only this time, I’m unrestrained. I’m not tied to a chair, because at this age, they don’t fear me. They barely speak to me, and when they do, it’s always with a dismissive, cool tone.
My body is small and frail, but my fighting spirit is still there, lurking under the darkness of bitterness and anger.
It doesn’t come out now. It won’t come out for several months, when I finally fight back and escape. But I can feel it in my veins, a restless fearlessness, like a lion that wants to attack.
The cement walls loom around me, but someone has tried to hide what an awful place this is by dressing it up to look like a regular bedroom. The small bed against one wall has a pink blanket on it, and there are a few stuffed animals resting against the pillows. A little woven rug covers the hard floor, and there are posters on the walls.
But I don’t know the people in the posters. I didn’t choose the stuffed animals. I don’t even like pink.
This room isn’t mine. I don’t belong here, no matter how often they tell me I do.
The door slams open, making me jump. That’s another reason I know this room isn’t mine. I don’t have any say about who comes in. I can’t keep anyone out, no matter how much I want to.
My jaw clenches as I take in the backlit figure of a boy—a boy who won’t leave me alone. He stalks into the room, and I catch the signature twist of his lips. It makes my insides churn, and my pulse picks up faster than a little rabbit running from the mouth of a wolf.
He’s the same age as me, or close. Barely older than me, barely eleven, and yet already such a monster.
Cliff’s little boy eyes gleam with cruel satisfaction when he sees my gaze fixed on him.
“Hello, Sabrina.”
I jolt awake, fear from too many years ago pumping through my veins. It takes me a second to orient myself in the unfamiliar room, and my heart slams inside my rib cage as I suck in several deep breaths. The dream keeps swimming in my mind, still raw and fresh.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
But it was real. All those years ago, it was real. Waking up in that bunker again after Reagan dragged me there was real too. The dreams may not be real now, but they once were. A long time ago, they were the reality I had no choice but to face, the horror that haunted my childhood.
Fisting my hair close to the roots, I tug on it until it stings, using the bite of pain to calm my mind.
In the dream, you were a little girl, Sophie. Helpless. Small. Little.
I couldn’t fight back, because I physically couldn’t fight back. Alan and Cliff were always stronger than me, the fear was always stronger than me. But that’s not true anymore—or at least, it doesn’t have to be. Now, I’m a grown fucking woman who can put up a hell of a fight, and as long as I have an ounce of strength left in me, that’s what I’ll do.
I won’t let Alan or Cliff fuck with me again. I won’t let them take even more than they’ve already taken from me.
Barely conscious, I fling my legs over the side of the bed and make my way through the murky darkness out of my room. As much as I hate to do it, I need to try to capture the images from the dream before they fade away completely, disappearing back into my subconscious.
The guys set up an art studio in a room I think was meant to be an office, and I make my way through the dark house to that room.
Even though I want to forget the
memories, want to bury them deep, I know they’re important. If I can latch on to the right memory, maybe I can come up with definitive proof of what Alan did to me.
Inside the studio, I don’t even flick on the lights. The blinds are open, giving me just enough illumination to paint by. And maybe it’s better to paint in shadows when the subjects of my paintings are all shadows themselves.
The paints are already there, the empty canvas set up on the easel, ready for me to paint. Blindly reaching for colors, I let my muscle memory and instincts take over as I wet my brush and begin to paint.
With every stroke of my brush over the canvas, new memories and images flood to the surface, but I can’t make sense of them—not rationally. If I try to actually think about them, grasp on to them and analyze them consciously, they float away. I have to paint them, have to put them into a tangible form before I can step back and consider them.
I paint for a while, chewing on my lower lip as my hand lays down quick strokes. As I work, my heart rate slowly begins to come down, falling into a steady rhythm by the time I set down my paintbrush and look at my creation.
It’s nothing.
Just a murky mess of shadows and colors, a lot like the paintings I was doing before the art show a couple months ago. Maybe this one represents a particular corner of the bunker that holds something important, but until I put together more pieces inside my head, I’ll never know for sure.
Letting out a deep sigh, I brush my thumb against a place where the paint hasn’t quite blended in, not caring that it leaves a smear on my skin. I like the way the wet paint feels as it dries and cracks in the creases of my skin, the way it becomes part of me before I wash it off. It’s like the feeling you get after having sex—that sweaty, sated, feeling when you’re not quite ready to go clean up, when you’re not ready to let go of the equally sweaty body still pressed against yours.