Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
“A misunderstanding?” Cill says it slowly, like he can’t believe his uncle just said this to him. “Did you call my dad’s death a misunderstanding?”
“That was a heart attack,” his uncle snaps.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Cill says. “I heard different. I heard it was you.” Emotion carries into his words. The mourning, the betrayal. “Are you gonna deny it?”
He waits and the silence stretches.
“You’d have done the same thing,” spits his uncle. “Your father ran the club into the ground when you left. He refused to take the opportunities we were given … so I took one instead.”
Cill takes an uneasy step forward, a step too close for my liking. “You decided to get in bed with the feds and pick people off.”
“At least I didn’t get in bed with your old lady, like Reed did,” Eamon shoots back. Cill’s jaw clenches and for a second I’m worried he’ll lose his temper, but he ignores the taunt.
“You set me up … set Reed up?” He motions toward me with the gun and glances at me. His uncle doesn’t, though, and I keep my focus on Eamon.
Bitterness seeps into Eamon’s tone. “I did what I had to do.”
“What the fuck?” Cill almost laughs. “Admit it. Admit you killed him.”
Two things happen at once: Eamon lifts his gun and fires at the same time I pull the trigger. Cill’s too lost in his emotions to act quickly enough, but I saw it. I saw Eamon’s thumb move back. I pulled it as quickly as I could, but still, his uncle got off a shot.
Bang. Bang.
Heat overwhelms me and I’m paralyzed as I watch both of them drop. Eamon falls backward, a bullet ripping through his throat. Blood sprays and I take two steps forward, watching his hands attempt to keep the blood from gushing out of his neck, even as he chokes on it.
Training keeps me focused on him, even though fear cripples me. “Cill.” I call out his name as the life drains from Eamon’s body.
“Cill!” I call out louder as Eamon’s eyes fall back and his body stills, his hand drops to the ground. His chest is still. I don’t trust it. I move forward once more, aim the gun and shoot two more bullets into his chest. They thud one after the other, jostling his body from the force. There’s no sound, no expression.
He’s dead.
It’s only then that I can move, turning to find Cill propped up on his knee. Thank fuck. Relief floods through me but I can’t stop my hands from trembling.
“I thought you were dead.” Adrenaline rushes through my veins. “I thought he got you.”
“I’m all right,” he tells me, although he stays focused on Eamon. “He didn’t say it.”
“I’m sorry, Cill.” I know he wanted to hear it, he needed to. Fuck, I did too. I settle on a single truth. “He’s a coward.”
It takes two of us two drag him to the edge of the reservoir. We weigh down his pockets with rocks and throw him in. Doesn’t take long for him to disappear under the water. Even after it’s done, it doesn’t feel real. None of it does. Not until Cill tells me, “Let’s get home to Kat.”
I only nod, keeping my answer to myself, but he says it. He says the exact words I was thinking, “I need her.”
Kat
* * *
Cill and Reed thought they could tiptoe out of my house without me knowing, but they were wrong. I heard them leave.
I swear there’s some part of me that just knows when they’re in trouble. Like my soul is attached to theirs. And right now, it’s worried.
I tried to fall back to sleep, it’s what Cill would want. Instead I either stared at the spinning fan, thinking the worst, or tossed and turned … also thinking the worst.
They’re gone long enough that after an hour of uselessness, I get out of bed and make a hot cup of tea.
It feels better to wait in the kitchen. Lying under the covers and hiding has never been my thing. Maybe for a couple of days after Cill got arrested, but you can’t hide under the damn blankets forever. Eventually, the world finds you anyway.
Time slips by and I text Lydia. Her response is to call and the moment I answer she asks, “Want me to come over?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m just–”
“Waiting for two men who are nothing but trouble,” she half jokes, sleep evident in her voice.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t dreaming of anything special so I don’t mind,” she tells me. A sad smile graces my lips as I sit down at the table.
“How are you two?”
I chew my bottom lip at the word two. “We’re … kind of like old times, kind of like new,” I admit to her and pull out the chair at the table, debating on what I should tell her. I want to spill everything, every last detail.