For a solid minute, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t even blink. I stare at the door, at the space where that woman stood, and do everything in my power not to scream.
Those photographs Leila showed me are seared into my brain. Even with my eyes open, I can still see them. My mother at the grocery store. My nephews playing in a park. My sister and her husband standing together.
Everything I did after I killed Javier Diaz was to protect them—my trip to Mexico, to take out Javier’s father, and then returning to the U.S. and starting a new life in the middle of nowhere. Did I miss my family, even though they often drove me nuts? Of course. But it was my love for them that kept me strong, ensured I never gave in and contacted them.
I thought I eliminated the only link between my family and the world of killers. Apparently, I was wrong.
Finally I close my eyes, suck in a heavy breath. I need to come up with a game plan. Something to get word to Atticus. Atticus will know what to do. He’ll make sure my family is safe. He’ll—
The door opens again.
I expect it to be Sheriff Gilbert, or a deputy, or maybe one of the U.S. Marshals, but it’s not any of them.
Erik Johnson has on jeans and gray T-shirt. He stands in the doorway. Leans in slightly to glance up at the camera, does a sort of double take when he notices the wire has been unplugged. He focuses his glare on me.
“You make me sick.”
I can tell he’s been practicing the line, probably running it over and over in his head. The way he would eye me down. The way he would stand there with shoulders back, his chin tilted up. He’s pissed because he thinks I’ve been lying to him all this time, and while it’s true I have been lying to him, I’ve been lying to him for a completely different reason. Not that it would matter to him right now, or even make sense, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing him as my last chance of saving my family.
“I need your help.”
This clearly surprises him, but his glare doesn’t waver.
“Why the fuck would I do anything for you?”
“Don’t think of it as for me. It’s for my family. They’re in danger.”
This clearly surprises him too, and he frowns for the first time.
“What family?”
“They’re not going to let me make a phone call. That woman—she’s not a real lawyer. She’s—”
Well, who is she? It’s too complicated to get into it. I don’t have time to explain how she set me up to kill those two men. Because she knew I was the kind of person who would kill them. The kind of person who wouldn’t let the murder of a girl go unavenged.
Erik takes a step back, leans his head out the door to look down the hallway, then focuses his glare on me again.
“I shouldn’t even be here right now. They’ve suspended me. They interrogated me. I’m under investigation. Like I had any idea what kind of monster you are.”
Obviously he’s talked his fellow deputies into sneaking him in here before the U.S. Marshals take me away. So that he can tell me off. I don’t blame him, and if I hadn’t just had a visit from the woman I knew as Leila Simmons, I would let him vent.
I say, “Will you remember this number?”
He doesn’t answer.
I recite the number Atticus gave me a year ago, the one he said to call if I’m ever in trouble or need to get hold of him. After I recite it, I say it again, slowly this time, to make sure it sinks into Erik’s head.
“Nobody will answer. It’ll be for a company called Scout’s Dry Cleaning. Leave a message. Say Holly’s family is in danger.”
His face changes, clouds with confusion.
“Who the hell is Holly?”
Before I can answer, there’s a sudden whistle down the hallway, one of the deputies giving him the signal that his time’s up.
Erik doesn’t waste time—he steps away, quietly shuts the door.
I’m left sitting there, shackled to the table, staring at empty space again, and it’s another minute before the door opens and Sheriff Gilbert peers in, his face as hard and severe as his gruff voice.
“Your ride’s here.”