by CJ Lyons
Before the end I will kill your love—just as you killed mine.
Before the end you will curse your name and wish you’d never been born.
Too late for your blood and your loves.
Too late you will know my name and I will finally win.
Chapter Twelve
Jenna’s dad met them at the airport—her mother was much too busy to bother, still in court. Which was probably not a bad thing. Peter Trindle barely glanced at Andre’s scars when she introduced them; he was much too busy being nervous himself, babbling something about his latest girlfriend as he led them to the car, a small Cadillac hatchback pretending to be a SUV, dwarfed by the Excursions and Suburbans and Tahoes surrounding it in the parking deck.
Becky, a typical California beach blonde who was half Peter’s age, making her younger than Jenna, was waiting in the front passenger seat. She got out when she saw them coming, and finally Jenna realized what her father had been trying to tell her but never actually got around to: the girl was pregnant.
“Dad?” she asked as Andre hoisted their bags into the rear compartment. “How—” Her mom had drawn the line at one child, and made Peter get a vasectomy after Jenna was born. That had become point of contention because every time they argued—the screaming arguments, not the whispered-hushed fights—her dad brought it up, accusing Helen of stealing his manhood and his legacy, which he obviously did not think his daughter ensured.
“It happens. One in a million, the doctor said,” Peter told her, blushing as he smoothed a hand over Becky’s belly. “Our little miracle. It’s a boy. You’re going to have a baby brother, Jenna!”
Things spiraled downhill from there. They drove to the hotel, Jenna and Andre riding in the back, Andre with his face turned to the window not because the concrete and steel that was LA’s freeway system fascinated him but rather to hide his grin, and Jenna kicking herself for forgetting why she’d left this town in the first place: nothing was real here, everything was melodrama. Tinsel and glitter, no substance.
Peter kept talking while Becky sat smiling and nodding. How he’d started a new business—Jenna had lost track of how many “new” businesses her dad had grown bored with and walked away from over the years—and that they were looking for a new apartment “because of the baby coming, you know,” and how hard it was to find one in a good school district “that could fit the tight budget your mother has me on,” and…
“Wait,” Jenna finally interrupted. “Mom knows? About the baby?”
The Judge had had Peter sign the craziest and most unbreakable pre-nup in history. Not only did Peter not get any money from the Galloways if he and Helen divorced, there were also other weird contingencies regulating their marriage even if they stayed together. Like any children kept the Galloway name, which schools they would attend, the Judge and his wife had visitation rights including first pick of holidays and Peter’s family would have to arrange their schedule accordingly—visitation rights spelled out years before Jenna was even born—and, finally, Peter wasn’t allowed to spend more than two nights in a row in the Galloway ancestral home.
Which was why Jenna was a Galloway instead of a Trindle, and why even after all these years of being separated—over two decades now—and Peter’s multiple affairs, her parents had never officially divorced. Well, it was why her father had never divorced her mother; she had no earthly idea why Helen put up with the arrangement. Probably because staying married gave her control over every aspect of Peter’s life… Jenna glanced at Becky’s belly. Almost every aspect.
Peter turned sheepish. “Well, now. She knows about Becky; that we’re serious. But not the baby, per se.” They were stopped in traffic, he turned in his seat to flash her a grin. “Was kinda hoping you could tell her? See if she’d up my allowance?”
Andre had a sudden coughing fit of laughter, and the traffic started edging forward, so all Jenna could do was sit back and wonder why she’d even bothered to come out here. These people didn’t need her protection against a mad bomber; they need protection against themselves.
“Sure, Dad, whatever.” Jenna sighed. “So where are you and Becky staying? Until we can find this guy?” When she’d called, she’d told Peter he needed to hide out for a few days to give her time to investigate, and now she saw their suitcases in the back of the SUV—enough for a few weeks, at least.
“Thought you said we’d be at the hotel with you.” Peter smiled at her in the rearview. “Could have sworn that’s what you said. If that doesn’t suit, I guess we’ll just have to take our chances—money’s tight, what with the baby and all.”
Andre glanced at Jenna, his eyes crinkling as he suppressed his laughter. Yeah, she should have seen that one coming. She wondered if she could deduct the hotel bill from her taxes—maybe make Peter sign on as a client and expense the whole trip? Better than being her own client, that was for certain. “Sure, that works.”
“So tell me about this bomber,” Peter said, finally taking a break from talking about himself. “Why is he targeting me?”
Chapter Thirteen
The card slid from Morgan’s suddenly numb fingers. “Get out,” she told Micah, staring past him to check every mirror, swiveling in her seat to look out the rear window, searching for anyone who might be watching. There was no one. That she could see. “Get out, now.”
“Morgan—”
“Now, Micah! Leave!” Her voice thundered through the small car.
Still Micah did not move. Couldn’t he see? The only way to keep him safe was to put distance between them. He had to get away, far, far away from Morgan. Now.
Her entire body trembled. Not with fear; with rage. At the bomber she was going to flay alive, inch by bloody inch, keep him alive and watching as his own flesh slipped from her blade.
Her anger wasn’t reserved only for the bomber. It was also for her father, who’d started all this, had placed her at the center of his victims’ wrath. That bit in the note about the bomber’s love dying—that had to be down to Clinton Caine. Who was conveniently dead and out of range of vengeance.
Micah wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him. And she realized that there was one more person she was furious at: herself. How could she have ever dreamed she could someday outrace Clinton Caine’s bloody legacy and dare to live a normal life? Worse than a Sheep, she’d been a Fool.
“Get out.” The words were a barely heard whisper as she buried her face in his chest, but they demanded every ounce of courage she had. “Please.”
He held her for a long moment. Then he pulled back until they were facing each other. “Morgan. How do I protect my family?”
From her. From the killer she may have brought to his doorstep. Just like she’d brought them to Jenna and Andre.
She blinked, and suddenly the world seemed drained of color. Bleached dry, no more heart or soul remaining to give it life. She turned away from Micah and started the car. A colorless landscape, its pretty little houses and pretty little Sheep whirling past as she drove, none of it able to distract her from her mission.
Keep Micah safe. Find the bomber.
Kill him.
“Morgan,” Micah’s voice sparked through her awareness. “Talk to me. Explain it.”
It took her a moment to corral her thoughts, they were stampeding in so many directions. Micah was right—it always helped to talk through problems with him.
“He’s obviously been watching for a while,” she started. “Must have been, to know about Emma and the nursing home. He’d seen the set up there; he knew how to time it perfectly. Same with Jenna’s grandfather, digging up every detail of the case—”
Micah straightened, pulling even farther away from her. “So he probably knows about us. Where I live, where my moms work. Their schedule. I need to warn them.”
“I’ve only been inside your house and met your moms a few times. They don’t mean anything to me.” It was a heartless thing to say, especially as she actually did rather like Micah’s mothers. “It
’s you. You’re my weakness. He’ll come for you next.”
“That’s why you want me to leave. Then where are we going?”
“We aren’t going anywhere. I’m just flushing out any tails. Then we’ll ditch this car in case he has it bugged.” To think she’d been so proud of actually paying money to own a car. Idiot. Cars were disposable, meaningless. Nothing compared to a life. Micah’s life.
“And I’m here…” She didn’t like the edge in his voice, but understood it. “…as bait?”
Keeping her eyes on the road, she shook her head. “No. You’re here so I can protect you. I’ll take you to someplace safe, somewhere he’ll never find.”
“And then you’ll hunt him down. Kill him.”
Her grin stretched her face in strange, unaccustomed ways. It wasn’t her normal smile, the one Micah had helped her to finally discover after she killed her father. No, this was an old, old smile. Lick-lipping anticipation, copied from Clint when she was a little girl. It was either smile and enjoy his bloody chaos—or at least act like she did—or die as one of his victims.
Morgan was no victim. Not then. Not now.
“Yeah. I’m going to kill him.”
Micah sucked in his breath. “Then stop the car. I’m leaving. I can take care of myself.”
“What?” No way in hell was she risking him.
“You promised: no more killing. I won’t be a party to it. I told you that. We agreed.”
She took her time scanning the mirrors, checking the cars behind them—they weren’t being followed. They’d reached Schenley Park. With its winding roads and secluded parking areas, it was the perfect place to ditch a car. And given how close it was to Oakland, bustling with businessmen, students, and tourists, it was also a good place to pick up a new one. She yanked the wheel, pulling off the main road and into a small parking lot beside a fitness trail.
Finally, she turned to face Micah. “What do you want me to do? Tell me. I’ll do it. I can’t lose you. Not like this, not because of my dad.”
He thought about her words. Took his time. “Not because of your dad. Because of you. Your choices. He’s gone. It’s your life now, Morgan. You need to step up and own that.”
Wasn’t that exactly what she was doing? Taking responsibility? Paying for her father’s sins?
“What do you want me to do?” she repeated.
“We’ll find out who this guy is. Together. As soon as we’re sure, we’ll take everything to the cops—or I will, if you don’t want to get involved with them. And then we’ll let them take it from there. Even if it means we need to hide out in some crazy cabin up a mountain in Alaska or someplace, we’ll let them handle it, hunt him down, arrest him. Deal?”
She loved how he made it sound so clean and simple. Micah’s world was exactly that. No chaos, no blood, no screams. Right and wrong—and he was always there, standing up to do the right thing. Somehow, despite everything, she’d found herself a knight in shining honor.
The thought made her smile—a real smile, not a twisted reflection of her father’s killing grimace. “So, if it’s you and me up a mountain alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, I guess I should hope the police take a long, long time finding this guy?”
She’d wanted to make him smile, but his shoulders didn’t release any of their tension, and his face remained taut with anxiety.
“Promise me my moms are safe.”
“I can’t guarantee it one hundred percent.” No one could. The world didn’t work like that, even if you weren’t trying to out-think a crazed serial bomber. She swallowed hard and faced him, meeting his eyes without flinching. “I’ll tell them what’s happened, and how it’s all my fault. I’ll send you all somewhere safe if that’s what you want.”
“No. They’d never go. And they’d hate you if they found out. Besides, I should stay with you.” He almost made it sound like he was protecting her. From whom? The bomber? Or herself? “But I can’t let anything happen to them.”
He was torn, and she hated that she was the cause of his misery. “I have a confession to make. While I was gone over the summer, I needed to make sure you were safe, so I—”
“You set up surveillance cameras at the house. Are they still there?” He didn’t seem angry—more like excited that they had a way to keep an eye on his mothers. “Can I monitor them from my phone?”
“Sure, let me—” She glanced at him. “Wait. You knew? All along?”
“Morgan. I’m not an idiot. I know you—sometimes I think better than you know yourself. You watch over everyone you care about: Jenna, Andre, even the FBI agent who caught your dad and her family. Of course I knew you were watching me. Why do you think I made sure I invited Bethany to my house for all those tutoring sessions over the summer? I figured the fastest way to get you to come back home was to make you jealous.”
Morgan didn’t surprise easily, but leave it to Micah to be one of the few people who could. More than once. “Your talent’s wasted on art. You should be—”
“What? A cop? A PI? Or a crook since I can think—a little—like you?” He shook his head. “No thanks. Hanging out with you is all the drama I can handle.”
She set up the surveillance feeds and alerts on his phone and handed it back to him. “So, we’re okay? Despite all this?”
“My moms are safe. We have a plan. And you’re going to keep your promise, right? No killing.”
“Except like self-defense. I mean, if he has a gun pointed at you or an innocent civilian and there are no cops around, I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Let’s put it this way: no more bloodshed than necessary.” She opened her mouth and he raised a finger to stop her. “And to decide what’s necessary, ask yourself: what would Micah do? Or better yet, Andre? I know you respect him. Ask yourself where he’d draw the line.”
She nodded her assent. “I can do that.” She hoped. “Deal.”
“Okay. Now that we’ve got that sorted, do you know where to start? Besides stealing a car?”
She loved that he didn’t argue the necessity of anonymous transportation. “I’m not sure. It’s not like this note has a map drawn on the back.”
“It kinda does. If you read between the lines. He’s not just focused on people you love, but also he specifically mentions people sharing your blood. Didn’t you tell me you had a half-brother? Adam?”
“Older brother. Clint’s his father as well.” Adam was Clinton Caine’s only legitimate son, not born from a woman Clint had kidnapped, raped, and tortured. He was also nothing at all like Clint—or Morgan. Adam was kind and thoughtful, someone who could never hurt a fly, even if it meant risking his own life instead. She knew because she’d seen him do exactly that—risk his life to save Jenna’s. “Adam was in the news not too long ago, back when Clinton was captured. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to track him down.”
“Then Adam’s our next stop,” Micah said, hopping out of the car and slamming the door behind him. “We need to get to him before the killer does.”
Chapter Fourteen
As Morgan drove their stolen Subaru Forester—Adam lived with his foster mother up in the mountains in a little town called Orbisonia, and for some reason even in the summer, Morgan always felt like the trip deserved an all-wheel drive vehicle—Micah used Morgan’s phone and her database apps to search for a phone number. He didn’t find one for Adam, but he did track down a landline and a cell phone listed to Adam’s foster mother.
“He’s my age, right?” he said, after dialing and getting no answer on either. “What kind of kid doesn’t have a cell phone?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to connect with the outside world.”
“That’s you, and you have a cell phone.”
“Ahh, but I’m not interested in connection. I’m interested in manipulation.”
He fiddled with his own phone, scanning the security feeds monitoring his home. Then switched back to hers and dialed again. “Still n
o answer. Should I leave a message?”
“No. It’ll only spook him. If he runs, I can’t protect him.”
“Why would your own brother run from you?”
“Well, the last time I saw him, I killed a man in front of him, framed Adam for the murder, and then tried to kill him.” She thought about it and decided to be honest. “More than a few times.” She shrugged, not to make light of it, but to shift some of the weight of her past to where it should rest: on her father’s shoulders. “Adam ran away from Clinton and left me alone with him, and I was angry. I couldn’t forgive him.”
“This was back when the FBI caught your father. You were just a little girl, totally in his power.”
“I was young, but I’m not sure I was ever just a girl.” She wasn’t sure even now, but she didn’t have to say that; Micah knew her doubts and fears. “Adam spent some time in juvie—he was trying to do the right thing, protect some kids from Clint, but still, it was against the law. They went easy on him and he ended up with a good foster family. I think he’s happy.”
“You’ve been keeping tabs on him?”
“A little. At first to make sure he hadn’t changed and become more like me and Clint. But I should’ve known better. Adam was never anything like us. He has a sweet heart, the kind of guy who’d give a friend his last nickel without even asking why if you said you needed it.”
She didn’t tell him the other reason she’d kept going back to watch Adam with his foster family—she’d wanted to see what made Adam so different from her, see if there was some trigger or ritual or missing ingredient she could find to fix the hole Clinton Caine had drilled into her own heart.
She’d come away tearful and angry, jealous of Adam’s happiness. Back then, before she met Micah, when she’d been wandering all alone, Clint safely behind bars leaving no one to control and manipulate her, she’d thought of destroying Adam’s perfect new family. She’d reveled in the idea of making him watch as she killed everyone he loved.