“It’s mine, Gareth.”
What the fuck.
“Are you telling me you left this outside?” I ask her in an even tone.
“What? No! I was gone this whole time! But look,” she instructs leaning closer to me and holding the edge of the box toward me, “it’s a forgery. You can see where the carbon paper was held against it.”
Then it was Arthur. No, it can’t be. He barely leaves New Orleans and this is much too far for him to travel to play some trivial game like this.
“Who the hell did this?” I murmur to myself.
“Damned if I know,” she answers with a shrug. “What was in it though? The box I mean. Whatever it was sent you into a proper tizzy.”
“A clock,” I say absentmindedly as I shape my hands in a circle, “with all of our faces on a number.”
“Well, what number were you? One?” she asks thoughtfully. Bentlee crosses a leg over the other and waits patiently while I try to remember the damned thing before the rage descended on me.
“Nine. I think.”
“Today’s the eighth—for a few more hours anyway,” she says as she glances at the clock behind her.
“Which makes tomorrow the ninth,” I say slowly. Which just so happens to be my last day to find and eliminate the mark.
“Fuck!” I shout as I get to my feet and run my hands through my hair irritably. It’s not Lance—there’
s no way in hell that Arthur would sanction a hit on him. It can’t be Bentlee because she hasn’t done anything to earn his ire.
It has to be Tristan.
He wants him dead by tomorrow for what he’s done to him and he chose me for the task because he knows that I’ll do whatever I can to protect the only person in the world that actually means something to me.
He’ll threaten to take Bentlee into his fucking hostel of whores and pimp her out if I fail.
And I can’t let that happen.
It’s not a fucking option that I’m even willing to consider.
Chapter 12
I wake up with a start.
Somewhere between putting one of the puzzle pieces together and getting closer to deciphering the riddle, I fell asleep on the couch.
Bentlee’s gone again.
I can tell by how lonely the air feels.
It resonates around me since home feels a hell of a lot more empty now.
It’s day two; the ninth and I’ve run out of time. On top of everything else, I’ve run out of fucking time.
I rub my face quickly and get to my feet. There’s still the mark left to find, and I’m convinced it’s Tristan. The problem with him, is that when he and Queenie make a run for it, they do a damn good job of fucking disappearing.
On the way to the bathroom, I grab the burner phone and dial his number. It may take him a moment to answer because chances are, he’ll think it’s Arthur, but if he feels brave, he’ll see it’s me and answer his phone.
“Hello?”
He sounds winded, tired, and a little nervous, but at least he answered the phone.