Page 100 of Burn Like An Angel

“Then what happened?” Raine asks.

“She won’t say. All I know is we left behind a pharmacy tech with a broken nose on the phone with the police. I managed to swipe the meds before we hauled ass.”

“Shit!” I exclaim. “Were you followed back?”

“No. There was CCTV, though.”

Frowning at the soft vibrating coming from his pocket, Xander pulls out one of the stolen phones. I walk over to the bathroom door and tap, my ear pressed against the wood to hear Ripley’s response.

“Rip? Are you okay in there?”

“Go away,” she fires back.

“What happened?”

“Leave me alone, Nox!”

“Please, open up. Let us help.”

Silence.

Shit, this isn’t good. She’s been hanging on by a thread. If this tech did something to trigger her paranoia, it’s lucky they didn’t get worse than a broken nose.

“Raine. Can you talk to her?”

Turning around, I find him tuned in to the voices emanating from Xander’s phone. They’re both totally immersed. My scalp prickles uneasily as I stop at Xander’s side to look over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Another press conference,” he mutters. “I just got the notification. But it’s not Bancroft dolling out more professional lies this time.”

“Then who is?”

Bloodthirsty journalists gather on the live feed. It’s being shot against a professional backdrop, the pedestal and microphone set up next to an oversized easel with a board positioned on it.

The floor falls away beneath me when I realise whose face is printed on that board. She’s younger. Hazel eyes filled with innocence. Smiling. Arms tattoo free. Tawny-brown curls pinned back with two criss-crossed paintbrushes. No septum piercing in sight.

Ripley.

“What is this?” I gasp.

“Some kind of missing persons’ appeal?” Xander laughs without humour. “This is a new low.”

The hum of voices on the live feed falls silent. Striding over to the pedestal, a broad-shouldered man takes the stage. His smooth skin is tanned, like he’s been sunning himself on a tropical island recently.

Dark-brown hair that doesn’t seem to match his age belies an expensive dye job. Even his beard is well-trimmed without a hair out of place, complementing his crisp, pinstriped suit.

Businessman, clearly. From his confident walk to the way he holds his head high with self-importance, his entire persona screams extravagant wealth and power. Already, I hate him.

“Who’s the suit?”

Xander exhales loudly. “That… is Ripley’s uncle.”

“Oh, shit,” Raine mutters.

On the screen, journalists lean forward in their chairs, notepads poised and questions ready. This is another stagedshow for the world’s media to gulp down. I have a bad fucking feeling.

“Good afternoon. My name is Jonathan Bennet.”

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