Page 20 of Pulling Strings

“Come on, Fitch, why’d you leave? Really? And why didn’t you come back?”

I sighed. “The tattoo process isn’t exactly riveting, Donnie. Like watching paint dry. I had better things to do.”

He frowned but gave no reply.

Quiet filled the air.

A road sign enumerated miles to go to our destination. I let off the gas pedal then stepped on the clutch, shifting into fifth. Another glance in the rearview assured me Grimm and the others were far behind us now.

“I wanted you to be there.” Donovan’s voice was soft, and I could tell he was hurt.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Last night was important to me,” he continued. “This,” he flashed the Hex mark so fresh it looked wet, “is important to me.

I cringed. “Get that out of my face.”

He withdrew but stayed swiveled toward me, glaring such daggers I thought he might pin me to my seat.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, getting louder with every word. “Are you jealous I’m getting attention for a change, or are you just this big of an asshole?”

“Just an asshole, I guess.” I ashed my cigarette into the center console.

Donovan blew out a puff of air. “Because of course you wouldn’t be jealous,” he grumbled.

My head snapped toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He recrossed his arms, settling into the bucket seat and glaring at the road ahead. After a moment’s pause, he said, “I know I’m not there yet, all right? But at least now I have a chance. I can be like you.”

“No, you can’t.” I shook my head. I couldn’t condone this. Couldn’t sit idly by while my kid brother followed in my footsteps. He was filling a mold I made, but I didn’t make it for him.

“Maybe I can’t do it thewayyou can,” he argued, “but anybody can kill people.”

“No,” I repeated more forcefully. “You can’t.”

He turned toward the window where the reflection of his face blended into a passing stand of trees. “This guy must live in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “Are we almost there, or what?”

“Almost.” My eyes flicked up to check the rearview again. No other cars ventured this far from town. Not at this hour, which was what I’d counted on.

I shoved the gearshift into neutral and tapped the brakes, steering the Porsche on a slow turn toward the shoulder of the road. Donovan looked around as the speedometer steadily dropped.

“Fitch, where are we?”

Far from Jacoby Thatcher’s house, that was for damn sure. But only about half a mile from the city gate, which was exactly where I wanted my brother to be.

The Porsche slowed to a stop, and I set the emergency brake. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, holding them in one hand while I finished off the cigarette in my other.

“Fitch, what the fuck?” Donovan asked.

I kicked my door open and ground the spent butt under my heel as I stepped out.

“Get out of the car,” I said.

Donovan stayed put, visually tracking me while I walked around the hood of the Porsche.

“No way!” he shouted as I approached. His breath fogged the glass. When I made it to his side, he rushed to set the manual lock.

“Jesus,” I groaned. A twist of my hand moved the inner mechanism, unlocking the door and swinging it wide.

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