We’re three hours ahead of Arizona, and it’s almost two p.m. here, so I’m sure she is in class. But a text from her pops up less than a minute later anyway.
HUNTER: Girl, it’s okay. I’m sure your mom’s trial is all you can think about. Just so long as you know I’m thinking about you. Can I do anything? You need anything?
A lump forms in my throat, and Dax squeezes my knee. I don’t think he’s reading her text, but we’re sitting so close that he can probably feel my reaction to it.
ME: No, I’m okay. It’s not just Mom’s trial though. I’ll explain everything when I can. But I just wanted to tell you I love you.
HUNTER: What? What’s going on? Who do I need to hurt?
I bite back a half-smile at my protective, bloodthirsty friend. I wish I could tell her everything, but this response is exactly why I can’t. If I’d told her from the start about the man in the black mask, or about how we discovered it was Hollowell, she probably would’ve hopped a plane out here and tried to take him on herself.
It’s hard to sit by and do nothing when people you love are in danger. I’ve learned that the hard way.
ME: No one. Thanks though. But can you do me a favor? If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, can you call the Fox Hill Police Department and have them swing by this address? But *only* if you don’t hear from me.
I lean forward a little to get River’s attention, and he looks up from the phone where the route is mapped out.
“What’s the address?” I ask.
He recites it back to me, and I type it into the phone, reiterating once again that Hunter should only call the police if she doesn’t hear back from me in a while. Dirty cops in this town or not, it feels monumentally stupid to walk into a potentially dangerous situation without at least a little backup.
HUNTER: What the hell is going on, Low? You’re scaring the fuck out of me.
ME: I’m sorry. I don’t want to. I love you, dummy.
There’s a long pause, and I can tell she’s probably debating whether to threaten or cajole me to try to get more answers. But she knows me well enough to know it won’t work.
HUNTER: I love you too. Even though I hate you a little bit right now.
A small laugh huffs out of me, and I shake my head as I type one last message.
ME: No you don’t. You just love me.
HUNTER: Damn you.
I want to keep texting her, to keep clinging to this last shred of normalcy in my life, a connection to a time when my life was about poker and homework and hanging out with friends on the weekends. Normal fucking teenager stuff.
But as Lincoln rounds a corner, River murmurs, “We’re close,” and my head snaps up.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I lean forward to peer out the window. I don’t recognize this part of town at all, but that’s not surprising. I don’t know Fox Hill all that well yet, especially the out-of-the-way neighborhoods.
And this is definitely out-of-the-way.
Less than a minute later, Lincoln rolls to a stop in front of our destination. It’s a dry cleaning business, surrounded on either side by a worn-down convenience store and a fast-food restaurant. There are blinds on the windows, and they’re down, but the slats are open, allowing me to see inside.
A man sits on a stool behind the counter, looking bored as hell, and from what I can see from here, everything around him looks like it belongs to a legit dry cleaning business. Racks of clothes in garment bags hang behind him, and there’s a small monitor and keyboard set up on the counter next to a credit card machine.
If we didn’t have a receipt with numbers so big it made my heart stop, I’d almost believe we’d made a mistake and that this storefront really is nothing more than a place to take dirty clothes.
But the devil lurks in the blandest things.
Judge Hollowell taught me that.
“Okay.” Linc’s voice is taut as a wire. “Let’s go.”
The guys all open their doors and step out, and I follow after Chase, who takes my hand to help me and doesn’t let go.
The guy inside the dry cleaner looks up as we approach, but he doesn’t look alarmed at our presence, cementing my belief that this place actually does function as a legit business in addition to whatever other shit gets done under the table.
“Picking up?” he asks in a bored voice, sliding off the stool as we approach the counter. He’s in his thirties, with hair shaved close on the sides and a little longer on top, and deep pockmarks on his cheeks.
“No, actually. We just wanted to ask a question about this receipt.” Lincoln takes the piece of paper from River, who’s standing close behind him, Dax right by his side. Linc slaps the document down on the counter lightly, and the sound of his palm hitting the worn wood almost makes me jump.
Fuck. Get it together, Low.
“Yeah? What about it?”
The guy doesn’t seem all that interested—at least, not until he leans over and looks at the receipt. Then his posture changes immediately, a subtle shift that makes my stomach clench with nerves. When he looks back up, every trace of boredom is gone from his face.
“Seems a little high for a refund,” Linc says, and I can’t believe how fucking calm he sounds right now.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t respond to that. His expression is neutral, but the tense lines of his body haven’t eased. He’s watching. Waiting.
“We have a message for Niles D’Amato.” Lincoln raps his knuckles against the paper. “About the man he gave this too. Does Niles know Hollowell’s
