Sparrow

“Didn’t cash the check. Rowan’s money is still there. I still can’t track Greystone’s license plate. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid to use his own car, if he did kidnap her.”

The word kidnap alone made me want to do to Brock things that would make Billy Crupti’s death look like a pleasant stroll in the park.

“Brock is no criminal. He knows zero about shit like this. He only knows how to detox druggies.” And it’s not like he was doing that all that well either. Flynn was the perfect example. “Keep looking. Try the toll records. I bet you anything he drove his own fucking car.”

There was a way to find out for sure, though.

I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. I rushed into a taxi and gave the driver Cat’s address. Lucy and Daisy had my car, because anyone seeing the Maserati would think of me and know they had my authority behind them. I needed as many eyes in Boston as I could get.

I shoved a fistful of money into the driver’s hand. “Make it quick.”

The cab flew so fast past the tall buildings, I actually thought it was going to take off.

And it still might not be fast enough, I thought as the streets flashed through my window.

That’s what I was afraid of.

SPARROW

I DIDN’T BUDGE.

“No,” I said for the millionth time. “I’m not digging.”

If Brock wanted to kill me, he’d have to do it the hard, messy way. I wasn’t going to cooperate, and why would I? Even if every person I ever knew was looking for me, their chances of finding me were slim to none. We were so deep in the middle of nowhere I wasn’t sure how Brock was going to find his way back from here when he was done.

“No?” He finally lost his patience. He hit me with the back of the gun, a smack straight to my face.

I fell to the ground. Blood trickled from my forehead, dripping into my eye, but I didn’t feel a thing. I was so cold I was past feeling my skin. Blissfully numb. Maybe I wouldn’t feel it when his bullet tore through my skin.

“Another one’s coming your way if you don’t start digging.” He pointed at me with the gun, sounding cheerful.

Goddammit, how did I not realize the man was so sick? He’d hidden it really well, that’s how. I used the shovel to push myself to my feet and stuck it into the soil, biting back a moan. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“That’s it. Now keep digging. Every time you stop, I’ll smack you with this little baby.” He kissed his gun, then took a seat on a stump with a white mark, crossing his legs

Yeah, Brock had tried extra hard to get me to like him. It had almost worked. But then it didn’t. Even with Troy’s awful reputation and obnoxious behavior, I was still more interested in him.

I started digging my hole, wincing every time the shovel hit the ground. I barely had any strength in me. I was weak, scared, hungry and furious. My body temperature was so low, I was afraid that I’d faint and Brock would finish me off while I’m unconscious. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe I wouldn’t feel a thing after all.

“Good job,” he said.

“Screw you,” I muttered under my breath. He heard. Even though it was weak and faint, Brock heard.

“What did you just say?”

My back was to him but I could still see him from my peripheral vision, and it was a good thing I could, because my rage boiled my blood back to a warm enough temperature for me to keep functioning. The digging helped, too.

“I said…” I answered slowly, trying to control my chattering teeth and shoving the tool deeper into the mud. “Screw. You.”

He bolted up and strode to my direction. For the first time in months, I actually welcomed his proximity. I thrust the shovel blade into his stomach as hard as I could.

I stumbled backward from the impact as he rolled to the ground, his ass hitting the mud with a thud that almost made me smile. By the way he held his middle, I knew I’d managed to hurt him. I groped for his gun, eyes zeroing on the deadly weapon as it slid from his hand. I felt my fingers curling around the cold metal, so close to saving myself, so close to freedom…

A kick to the stomach sent me backward into the shallow hole. By the time I managed to blink the dirt away and regain my sight, he was already standing above me.

Brock stared me down like he wanted to smash his boot into my face. His gun was tucked into the waist of his jeans, the shovel in his hand. “Left or right?” he asked through clenched teeth.