I’ve heard some of the things my father’s capable of. God-awful things that make even me afraid of him, and apparently, my mother, as well. She clearly didn’t want me following in his footsteps but already thought I was, which hurts.
Back when she wrote it, I didn’t think I was a bad person. Now it’s different, but she couldn’t possibly have known that, could she? Did she really think that poorly of me? She clearly thought that poorly of my father.
I have to wonder, as afraid as she sounded, did he have something to do with her death?
My thoughts drift to what the guy on the corner told me earlier, about the woman hanging around The Dusky Inn who looked like me. The last time I saw my mother was when she was in her coffin. Dead.
She was dead. I saw her die. But what if she didn’t?
After analyzing my mother’s death and the letter for way too long, I put it away, get up, and wander over to the window to stare out at the night. I live in an apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood that normally makes me feel safe. Tonight, though, it feels different.
Every shadow, every noise, every movement makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s the random letters, or if Tenner’s attack has me more frightened than I’m allowing myself to admit. Regardless, it is a safe place. A small town in the middle of nowhere. The perfect setup. But maybe they did found out where I am living. I wouldn’t be too hard to track down.
What if they’re out there watching me?
Who are they?
As I’m staring out the window, I notice a car parked at the curb just across the street. It’s black with tinted windows, nearly blending into the night. To me, however, it stands out like a sore thumb. All the mafia men I grew up with have that type of car to keep a low profile. Could this be it? Could this be who’s been sending me notes? I need to find out where the plates are from.
Hurrying over to my closet, I slip on a jacket and a pair of boots, and then I grab one of my smaller handguns to avoid scaring the shit out of my neighbors if I cross paths with one. Then I go out the back door so if there is someone in the car, they won’t see me coming.
I rush down the steps, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes focused on the field out back. It’s flat and bare enough I can see there’s nothing out there. With the coast clear, I round the corner of the apartment and lower my gun to my side.
I stay in the shadows of the carports and cars as long as possible, cautiously crossing the parking lot. Then I backtrack before I approach the rear of the car.
When I get close enough, I see the plates aren’t from Massachusetts, but from here, with a bright neon green sticker that says, “Back off my rear.” The sticker stands out on the fancy car, seeming oddly out of place.
It doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside, so I move around to peer into the window. It’s clean and empty, except for a few papers in the middle console and a bag on the passenger seat.
I glance around, making sure no one is nearby, then open the door and search around. The receipts aren’t cause for suspicion—gas, food, the norm. I move to the bag, which is strangely empty. Yet again, nothing to raise a red flag.
I open the glove box and find rental car papers. Nothing else. I don’t relax yet, though, not until I check the trunk. The trunk is where all the bad stuff is kept.
I pop it open, climb out of the car, and round the back. Only a tire iron, a jack, and a pair of black boots sit in there. Again, odd, but it’s nothing to be alarmed about.
Shaking my head at myself, I close the trunk then turn to go back inside, stopping dead in my tracks as I’m about to cross the street. For a flicker of a second, I swear I see someone in the shadows of the parking lot, watching me. Tall, with a hoodie pulled over their head, smoking a cigarette and wearing boots. Could it be those boots? The boots who saved me?
When I blink, they’re gone. It happens so fast that it has to be my imagination. Or the bump on my head.
Dammit, I need to find out who wrote the note before I go crazy. Or end up dead.
Chapter 6
Lola
I don’t plan on going to work at The Dusky Inn the next day, not after what happened with Tenner. I’m not planning on quitting or anything, simply because I need the cash. Although, I’ll admit I’m more shaken up than I’d like to be. Subsequently, I spend most of the morning trying to bury everything down where it belongs.
But while I’m working at the dealership, I get a call from Reagan telling me I can either come in tonight or not get the couple grand owed to me for the prior two weeks’ work. He doesn’t give me time to argue, just hangs up when he’s done. So, once I get off work, I get my ass down to the Inn.
I think about going to Nyjah first, but then decide to face this head-on. It’s my problem, and as such, no one else needs to get involved.
Reagan has an office upstairs that has rows of windows, but he’s chosen to board them up so not a single drop of sunlight can sneak in. It’s always dark and musty in there, smelling a little moldy. There’s this antique armoire in the corner that’s always locked with a chain and padlock. In the far back corner is a desk that’s always cluttered in garbage and papers, and when I walk in, Reagan is sitting there, reading a paper over it.
He has shoulder-length hair, always wears a worn T-shirt, and is smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t look like Nyjah, except for the eyes. Reagan has more wrinkles around them, and they are harder, unwelcoming.
“I’m here,” I announce as I enter the office, instantly noticing he has a gun on the desk.
Suddenly, I’m really glad I brought mine.
He glances up from the paper he’s reading, eyes lazily drifting over me and making me feel naked, though I’m wearing a pencil skirt and blouse.
I’ve never liked Reagan. Something about him rubs me the wrong way. Now, it’s even worse. My spidey-senses are going crazy.
“And so you are.” He motions for me to come in. “Have a seat, Lola.”
“No thanks.” I shake my head, my eyes drifting toward his gun. “I think I’m good right here.”
He glances down at the gun then back up at me. “I always carry this on me; you know that.”
“Yeah, but after what happened last night with Tenner, I don’t trust you anymore.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “Well, I shouldn’t say anymore, since I never trusted you to begin with.”
“Watch it, Lola.” He tosses the pen he’s holding onto the desk then leans back in his seat. “After last night, you’re already walking on thin ice.”
“You should have never told that creep I’d do what he wanted to do,” I say in a clipped tone. “You had no right.”
He shrugs, overlapping his hands on his stomach. “I thought you were a tough girl. You’ve always come across as one.” Another shrug, and it takes a hell of a lot of energy not to march across the room and punch him in the face. “Guess I was wrong.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s not like that, and you know it.”
“Well, whatever it is, you now owe me a thousand bucks.” His nonchalant attitude is pissing me off.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” He sits up. “For losing me money last night and a client.”
I take a cautious step into the room. “Tenner called you last night and told you what happened, I’m guessing?” I pause, not wanting to ask, but I need to know what happened after I blacked out. “Did he say anything else?”
r /> “Not really. Only that my business was a joke and he was never going to use or recommend The Dusky Inn services to anyone.” His brows knit the slightest bit. “Honestly, he seemed kind of nervous, which makes me wonder what exactly happened between you two.”
He waits for me to explain, but I stay quiet. As much as I don’t want to answer any of Reagan’s questions, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
“Fine, don’t tell me anything,” Reagan says in a low voice that carries a warning. “But here’s what you’re going to do to make it up to me—”
“I don’t owe you anything. So don’t pretend I do. That guy—Tenner—tried to beat the shit out of me, and whatever happened was self-defense. What I did to him was fair.”
“Nothing is fair in this world.” He leans forward and reaches for a paper on his desk. “Now sit down.”
“I already told you, I’m standing.” I take a step back toward the doorway. “In fact, you know what? I think I’ll leave now. I’m done talking about this.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lola Anders,” he calls out as I’m turning to exit the room.
I freeze mid-turn, my jaw dropping. “That’s not my name.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Isn’t it?” Amusement sparkles in his eyes. Clearly, he’s enjoying this.
I ball my hands into fist and stab my fingernails into my palms, attempting to shove down the anxiety clawing its way through my body. “No … And you know that.”
“I know a lot of things about you, Lola Anders.” He pauses. “Or is it, Lola Anelli? I’m not sure what you used to prefer to go by.”
Suddenly, it’s starting to makes sense. The notes.
I whirl around, glaring. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one doing it.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says coolly, but I detect a hint of puzzlement. “I’ve done a lot of things, Lola, so you’ll have to be more specific.”
My fingers hover above the gun strapped to my leg, hidden beneath my shorts. “You sent me the notes.”