Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
My name ricochets around the shop and knocks a windchime into a nervous little song. I shove at the fabric, sucking scented air, grab for the edge of a shelf and knock a vase that will definitely be on my conscience later. Hands—two? three?—close around my arms, my waist. My feet leave the ground.
“Be gentle,” Etta says, cool as ice water. “She’s useful alive.”
I don’t get to hear the rest. The door to the alley swallows me whole and the jacket smelling like someone else’s money clamps down while the world tilts. Fingers press into my ribs; something hard nudges my shin; my heel connects with someone’s ankle and he swears softly in a language I can’t place.
“Juno!” Arrow again, closer, then muffled as someone does something to the door or the air or the rules. A car door slides open. A body shifts. A voice says now like it’s the end of something and the beginning of something else, and then the hood cinches and the world goes quiet.
I am picked up and packed away like a vase, like an apology, like a girl who will not be allowed to write her own exit.
38
Arrow
I wake to motion and diesel. My wrists burn. Plastic bites into my skin. There’s a hood over my head and a zip tie cutting circulation at my thumbs. Someone’s shoulder is jammed against mine.
“Juno,” I say, in a low voice. “I’m here.”
She answers through fabric. “Arrow?”
“I’ve got you.” I test the restraints. Ankles tied, hands behind the chair. Chair is metal, bolted down. Floor hum says van. The air says river.
The ride stops. Doors slide. Boots on metal. Hands on my arms. We’re hauled out and walked fifteen steps. The air snaps colder, and rope knocks against a mast. Water slaps the hull. We’re at the marina.
“Steps,” a man orders. His accent is local. He guides my toe to a step and we go up, then down, then through a doorway that changes the sound in my ears. Has to be a cabin.
They sit me in another crew chair. Juno is set next to me. I hear the scrape of her boots. I lean toward the sound.
“Breathe with me,” I tell her. “In for five. Out for five.”
She does it. I do it with her. My pulse stops roaring.
The hood comes off. Light stings. We’re in the main salon of a yacht—white leather, lacquered table bolted to the deck, galley to port. Through the window, I catch the slip number: D4. The name on the stern reads LAUREL NINE.
Juno blinks against the light. Her wrists are zip-tied in front, ankles to chair legs. Her face is pale, jaw locked. She looks at me first, then scans the room.
Three men. Two wear boat jackets and carry themselves like hired muscle. One of them I recognize from Stonehouse. The third wears a navy blazer and a smile I know from a hundred boring family dinners.
Bob.
For a second my brain refuses to make the pieces fit. Then it does, and the click is loud in my head.
Etta Hoy steps in behind him, coat open, hair neat, expression like an accountant. She closes the hatch behind her and gives us a polite nod, as if we’ve arrived for a meeting she scheduled.
Juno’s voice is calm in a way I don’t like. She’s looking at Bob. “You.”
Bob spreads his hands, like a pastor starting the part where he asks for money. “Kiddo,” he says. “I told your mother we were making things right.”
“Don’t,” Juno snaps. “Don’t call me kiddo.”
He winces, then schools his face. “Okay. Juno.”
I shift my chair a half inch closer to hers. One of the muscle guys notices and plants a hand on the chair back. I stop. I take inventory. Zip ties are heavy-duty. No give. My belt has a micro ceramic blade in the lining (a gift from Dean I never thought I’d ever need.) If I can get my hands to my hip, I can cut. Not yet.
Etta crosses to the table and sets down a leather folder. “Let’s be efficient,” she says. “Time is not our friend.”
“Whose fault is that?” Juno asks, eyes on Bob.
Bob exhales. “I never wanted any of this to touch you,” he says. “Or your mother. Or Arby. I wanted—” He stops, looks at Etta. She gives a tiny nod. He goes on. “I wanted discretion. That’s all.”
“Discretion?” Juno repeats. “You hired a hit squad because you wanted discretion?”
“Careful,” Etta says mildly.
Juno turns on her. “You were with him at Club Greed.”
Etta doesn’t flinch. “I was.”
“This is insane,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Untie her. You don’t fix discretion by kidnapping two people in broad daylight.”
“Sun’s behind the clouds,” the muscle says, like that helps.
Bob runs a hand over his face. “Arby found out about me and Etta,” he says. “She saw us. She confronted me.”