Page 68 of Wild Devil

“He was an addict because of you. The heroine you shoved into his veins. We both know it,” I finally say, chewing over the words. It’s ironic in so many ways that he would choose that word to throw in my face now. Addict.

But he reacts to it. A barely perceptible twitch of his lower lip. Perhaps the start of a denial?

Instead, he laughs. “You are a fool. Your brother was the one who chased a high rather than live up to our family’s legacy. The word of a mentally-disturbed woman isn’t proof of anything.”

He sounds so smug. So confident.

“Then you don’t have anything to fear when these agents go through Hale’s journal and compare everything in it to the allegations against you,” I say, surprised by how damn calm I sound.

And for once—just one brief second—I can see my father’s bravado falter. His eyes narrow ever so slightly. Am I telling the truth? He doesn’t know.

And when it comes to Michael Heywood, his ego is his main weakness. Always has been.

“And whatever they find will lead back to that criminal Silas and those thugs of his. Not me.”

Experience dealing with my father in this arena pays off. I spot a small tell that I doubt I would have noticed before this whole mess started. Back when I was just stupid, innocent Frey so focused on herself and her own pain she was blind to the rest of the world. I’m not that girl anymore, and a twisting sensation in my gut warns me not to let this topic pass. He reacted to it for a reason.

If Daze were here with me, I know exactly what he’d say, “Press the bastard.”

So I do. “The truth is, you have no idea what Hale knew. He wrote down every bit of what he’d discovered. Every detail about your secret deal with a heroine dealer. Silas won’t take the fall for this. You will?—”

“Enough,” he snaps, slamming his hands onto the table. “Get her out of here?—”

He waves for a guard, but I lunge from my seat, bringing my face within inches of his. Perhaps it’s a stupid, reckless move. Maybe I’ve internalized more of Daze’s impulsive bravery than I’d thought. Either way, I feel like a dog with a bone.

If this agent needs cold, hard proof via confession, then that’s what I’ll give him.

“And,” I say to my father’s startled expression. “Hale knew all about where you’d stored the illicit goods. These men are just toying with you, Father. They already have a map with the locations circled.”

Blue eyes flashing, Michael Heywood looks at me and smirks—but his eyes betray anything but smugness. “Colton Abernathy has his name on those accounts. Not me. He came to me for assistance. Your wayward husband had debts to pay off, Frances. Why else do you think I took pity on him by agreeing to your marriage? Out of respect.”

My heartbeat surges through my eardrums. I can barely see straight. Yet, fear isn’t the reason.

Just more of that intoxicating sense of triumph.

“We’re done here,” I say, rising to my feet. I have no idea how I manage to keep my expression neutral, let alone my voice. “Thank you for confirming that aspect of your madness. If they search under Colton’s name, they’ll find the properties and I’m sure there will be more evidence there tying you both to this mess. By the way…” I turn back to face him. “Did you know that Hale was contacting Homeland Security and feeding them information every step of the way? That’s what he was trying to tell me all this time. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. It’s this—my mother saw through you, so did Hale, and so did I. Now the entire world knows who you are, but I won’t stand here and give you any more of my attention or time.”

I turn on my heel and hear him shout after me.

I just keep walking.

THIRTY-ONE

DAZE

Maybe it’s the days of accumulated brain damage talking, but, as I come to, I feel like utter shit. Shit, that got scraped off the bottom of someone’s shoe. Physically my entire body is fucked—my skull feels shattered, eyes won’t open, chest is on fire. The funny thing is that I’ve endured far worse.

Even the time I nearly got thrown into prison can’t compare to now. Because back then, there wasn’t a soft, slim hand holding onto my own, or a sweet voice whispering into my ear as though its owner had nothing but time in the world to sit at my side.

“Daze, please wake up.”

I’d stay in a coma forever if it meant keeping her here, safe from harm. Safe from the entire fucking world. But then her other hand must settle over my chest because it hurts like hell.

“Shit,” I croak, peeling my eyes open. “Be gentle with the merchandise, baby.”

She laughs at me, but it isn’t one of those fake ones she’d gotten so good at putting on in her life as a rich, preacher’s daughter. It’s real, with her head thrown back to display her thin throat. Politely, she looks like hell, still covered in dried blood. Her hair is a mess, but the smile shaping that pink mouth is even more genuine than her laughter is.

“I take it, your father’s men aren’t standing outside, waiting to put a bullet in my skull?”

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