Page 138 of Illicit

“Teagan?” Rocco calls for me. “What happen?—”

But I lose the call.

It feels like I lose him too.

The airbags don’t even deflate when I realize the muffled scream is my own.

The side of my face is on fire. My arms burn.

There’s no steering the car. Hell, there’s no seeing out the windows. The car skids across the earth below me. Just when I think I’ve come to a stop, another full force hit collides from my side.

The tail end of my car spins before coming to a stop.

It takes all the energy in my body, but I try to push the airbags from my face. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I can’t breathe.

My chest won’t work.

My head spins, and I see nothing but stars.

Then…

Then.

It’s like I’ve woken from anesthesia when I hear glass shatter.

“There you are.”

I force myself to breathe in much-needed oxygen and try to look to the side.

The pain … my neck, back, shoulder. Hell, everything hurts.

When I turn, I see him.

I only recognize a hint of the man from old newspaper reports. No one has ever shown me a picture, especially not Rocco. I had to find them myself. It was the beginning of my obsession with crime.

Rodney Monroe.

Murderer.

He killed his wife—Rocco’s mother.

And he did it in front of his son.

I’d know him anywhere, even though he looks much different than his mugshot from fifteen years ago. He’s aged well beyond his years. Seems prison will do that to you.

“Rocco?” I call, praying something in my car still works.

“Rocco? Who does he think he is? He’s Ricky. He’ll never be anything more,” Rodney growls.

Ricky?

He goes on. “Let’s see what that boy is willing to do. He’s a fucking pig. Saw you with him today. I have a feeling he’ll come for you, you little bitch.”

“No!” I scream. “Someone, help! Help!”

I might have taken the back way, but this road isn’t desolate.

Rodney yanks my door twice to wrench it open.

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