Hell Bent

And what?

Well, as much as she sort of wanted to ignore the verity, she was pretty sure that he was out whacking someone. It was his job, after all.

Annabelle moved down the hall to the last room, where Dylan had gone some time ago, to be alone. Everyone else was in the kitchen, drinking black vanilla-caramel tea and talking about the shock that of Craig Brandt being alive. Except for Beatrice, who claimed that she’d known it all along. Cassie had rolled her eyes at that.

Annabelle knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” Dylan’s tone was tired.

“Dylan, it’s me, Annabelle. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Annabelle opened the door to find him sitting on the guest bed, in almost exactly the same position that Craig and Virginia had been sitting in on Sam’s bed. She joined him there and put her hands in her lap. She stared down at them.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he began quietly.

“Really?” Annabelle asked, her brows lifting.

“You’re going to tell me that my dad didn’t have time to go into hiding. He was killed mere hours after he found the information on the laptop. He never could have gotten both of us to some far off safe place in time.”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed.

“Right?” he asked, turning to face her.

She hadn’t been going to tell him that at all. In fact, the truth was, she’d had no idea what to say to him, so she’d just been planning on sitting there beside him in companionable silence. There to lend a shoulder, should he need one.

But there was no point in telling him that.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s true, Dylan. Your dad did everything he possibly could in the time he had. He did manage to keep you safe, after all. That’s a father’s number one priority.”

Dylan nodded once and turned away again to look back at the floor. They stared at it together. Never before had a plain beige rug been so interesting to so very many people.

At last, he spoke again. “I know what Thane is.”

Annabelle’s spine stiffened. It was an automatic reaction. She kept her tone even and asked, “What do you mean, Dylan?”

“He’s not a real-estate mogul, is he?”

“Yes, he is.” It was true. He’d made millions off of his properties. That just wasn’t all that he was.

“It’s a cover. I’m not stupid.” He shook his head once. His voice was still soft, his tone still tired. “He’s an assassin, isn’t he?”

The world stopped turning.

“A hired killer?” He went on, glancing at her expectantly.

Annabelle squeezed the edge of the mattress in her fists. Dylan glanced down at them and laughed softly.

“It’s all right, Annabelle,” he said, using her first name for a change. “I know you can’t tell me anything. I don’t want to cause you grief.”

He looked back down at that floor.

She closed her eyes and stood to go, knowing that if she stayed with him in the room she would either end up confirming his dangerous speculations or lying to him. And she really didn’t want to lie to Dylan Anderson. He was alone enough in the world as it was.

She made her way to the door and reached out for the knob.

“Is he going to kill me too?” he asked.

She blinked. She turned to look at him. She wondered if she looked as stricken as she felt. “What on earth do you mean by that, Dylan?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

He stared at her for a long, hard moment and shook his head. “That’s how he keeps his secrets, right? By killing those who threaten them?”

Annabelle’s stomach clenched up tight. Her heart skipped a painful beat.

His eyes narrowed and he stood from the bed, taking a step toward her. “I want you to think about something, Annabelle. Think back six years. Can you do that? What were you and Jack Thane doing six years ago?”

She continued to stand there, not saying anything, unease flowing through her blood stream like lidocaine, making her limbs go numb one by one. Six years ago, she’d discovered that Jack Thane was an assassin. Six years ago, she’d caught him, unexpectedly, finishing off one of his marks.

Dylan closed the distance between them. He was just as tall as his father had been, so she found herself looking up into his green eyes.

He gazed down at her for several tense, silent moments, his expression softening into one of disappointment and frustration. “I can’t believe your trust in him has blinded you to the truth, Annabelle. Six years ago, Jack Thane killed my mother.” He shook his head, his expression turning mystified and angry. “Jesus, can’t you see that?”

Annabelle’s vision began tunneling inward. She no longer saw Dylan’s face before hers. She was inside of herself, floating in the existential nothingness of memory.

Six years ago…

It hadn’t been a woman she’d caught Jack killing. But that meant nothing. How many people did he off in a week?

Six years ago…

When someone important wanted someone executed, who did they go to? Jack was the best at what he did, aside, perhaps, from Samuel Price, who’d taught him everything he knew.

Six years ago, Jack had been in the right place, at the right time.

So, who would Godrick Osborne, a wealthy, powerful man who stood to lose way too much, choose to contact?

Annabelle found herself sliding downward. Dylan took her arms and eased her to the floor, where she sat against the door, too stunned to move.

She’d never asked Jack whether or not he killed women. Or children. Until she knew differently, the fact of the matter was, there was a possibility that he’d killed Teresa Anderson.

I could ask him now, she thought, desperately.

And he would either tell her “no,” or he would refuse to answer her at all. In which case, she would know that he’d done it.

She realized, then, that she would not be able to ask Jack if he’d done it. She couldn’t. Because even if he denied having killed Teresa, unless he flat out told her that he didn’t kill Teresa because he never killed women and children, then she may as well go ahead and believe that he did kill women and children. Because what was left unsaid was the most damning of all.

And Annabelle wouldn’t be able to live with that knowledge.

Jack took a deep, relaxing breath. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his heart beat. After a few moments, he opened them again and sat back on his haunches. With practiced ease, he inserted the crow bar beneath the rim of the large round metal lid and popped it off. It clanked slightly as he heaved it to the side. With one last calming breath, he dropped down into the dank, dark underground.

The tunnel was an access shaft for the waterways of the private boy’s school. Jack flicked on his flash light and shined it on the map in his other gloved hand. Two right turns and a long straight stretch, then a left turn, and he would come to a door.

Jack shined the light ahead and moved through the tunnel, making sure to continue breathing evenly as he did so.

He hated dark, damp, enclosed spaces. He had since he was a child. But, having reviewed his mark’s extensive profile, he knew that this was the way he had to go. It was what made the most sense. The death would be chalked up as a freak accident and left at that. Any method that would result in a murder being successfully