The answer sickens me to my stomach—he would. He will.
And I’m powerless to do a damn thing to stop him.
A sudden smattering of noise draws my attention, and I finally falter. At a glance, the street I’m on is deserted, but up ahead, I spot a building that may have been my destination all along—a warehouse near the wharf.
A battered door serves as the entrance, but it’s unlocked. Musty air tickles my nostrils as I feel through the dark until I find a hallway leading into a larger space. The first time I came here, a light had illuminated much of the enclosed area ahead, but now it’s pitch-black.
Something clatters as I stumble against it. I forge ahead until my hand meets a surface I assume to be a wall, and I gladly sink to the floor, bracing my back against it.
I keep as still as I can, listening for any other sound. If Branden is still on my trail, enclosing myself in here is a stupid course of action, but it’s one that I can’t seem to talk myself out of. Maybe because a persistent warning is echoing in my mind on repeat. You get there, and you wait for me.
I should still be running. Fighting. Or better yet, getting ahold of my parents somehow and telling them the truth—about everything.
A laugh escapes me, as if even my body knows what my brain can’t face. I won’t. I’ve spent too many years resisting those very actions—too many years obscuring the truth.
And as a result, no one would believe me. Hell, even I wouldn’t.
But Rafe did, a part of me whispers. He believed me without question, displaying a disgust for my circumstances that I’ve never had the energy to feel myself.
Is it genuine? Parsing over his responses, I can’t tell. For someone who claims to be so honest, he’s more guarded than not, displaying his real emotions only through layers at a time. And one fact remains painfully clear—I hardly know anything about him.
His true profession. His history with his uncle. His past.
Branden could be right. Rafe could have planted Faith’s hair clip. A good sister would want to believe as much.
Do I?
Rather than mull over the answer, I lean back against the wall, settling into the strange, darkened space. The building must be old, given the various creaking, cracking noises that form a backdrop to my own harsh breathing.
But soon, another noise joins the quiet cacophony—heavy, cautious footsteps.
Chapter Five
“Hannah?”
I tense at the sound of my name before my body registers the cadence of the voice speaking it.
“I’m here,” I croak, feeling along the floor as I stand.
An overhead light switches on, bathing the room in an orange glow—as well as revealing the pile of chaos I’ve left in my wake. I’m standing on a stack of overturned documents, marred by a muddy footprint that looks suspiciously like it might belong to my sandal. Out of guilt, I shuffle the pages together and attempt to return them to the nearest table.
The topmost one catches my eye as I try to shove it inside a folder. It’s a slip of paper with the city police emblem emblazoned across the top. Beneath that is a list of what seems to be names. Several of them have been crudely circled in red ink.
One, in particular, catches my eye, halfway down the page—Branden Dewitt.
“Hannah?” Rafe stands a few feet away, his back to me. “Where are you?”
I snatch the list, tucking it into my bag. “I’m over here!” I approach him slowly, sensing even before I come close that something is horribly wrong. “Rafe…”
He’s leaning to one side, heavily favoring that leg. His left hand clutches at his chest, and a telltale smell tickles my nostrils, growing more potent by the second.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, scanning his frame for any other signs of injury—which I find in a spattered trail of blood leading from the hall, tracking his entry. “What happened?”
Groaning, he hobbles to a sturdy table nearby and braces his hands over it. “Give me a hand,” he demands, his voice hoarse. “Black case in the corner.”
With the words barely out of his mouth, he slumps forward, knocking the table off balance.
I lurch toward him. “Rafe—”
“Just get the fucking case,” he grates, lifting a hand to ward me off. “Please…”
I whirl on my heel, struggling to follow his instructions. The room is a maze of stray materials. Stacks of canvases. Boxes piled high with random equipment. Stray slabs of plywood lean against the wall, obscuring a shelf in a far corner. On it, I find a black leather construct resembling a briefcase.
I bring it to Rafe, setting it beside him.
“You don’t look good,” I rasp. He’s shaking, barely capable of supporting himself on trembling hands. Still, he risks that precarious balance to grab the case, dragging it toward him. For all the effort, he fumbles with the latch. “Fuck—”
“I’ll do it.” I unlatch the top of the case, opening it to reveal a sight that takes my breath away. Fear constricts my throat, and all I seem capable of doing is whispering, “Rafe…”
“Don’t,” he warns before overturning the case entirely, allowing the contents to spill out onto the table’s surface. Money. Stacks and stacks of crisp bills, each secured with a rubber band. There have to be hundreds. Thousands…
But the amount pales in comparison to what falls amid the scattered stacks, its shape unmistakable—a gun.
Rafe grabs for it first, tucking it into his pocket. When he reaches for a stack of cash next, droplets of blood drip from his fingers, staining a handful of bills. “Damn it.” He forms a fist instead, cocking his head in my direction. “I need you to grab it.”
I barely hear him. More blood is dripping from his chin, flowing from his split lip. Fresh bruising around his eye alludes to yet another blow. From one of Gino’s goons? From his uncle?
“Did you hear me? Hey, bunny!” He snaps his fingers beneath my
