Page 3 of Renegade Ruin

There isn’t a world in which this is real. Planes are supposed to be safer than cars. I feel like I read that somewhere. And this wasn’t just any plane. It was the best Richard York could buy. He insisted. Nothing but the best for his team.

“No.” This time my protest is nothing more than a whisper. I would’ve known. I would have seen the news this morning. Someone would have called.

Then I remember I put my phone on Do Not Disturb. All those missed calls and messages. The notifications I ignored.

Fuck.

I yank my phone from my pocket, and through my blurred vision, somehow manage to pull up the news app.

A strangled sob rips through the air, and it takes me a moment to realize it didn’t come from Willow. It’s mine.

Tragic Plane Crash Takes the Lives of New York Renegades

Tommy.

Jackson.

Norah.

Fuck.

Phoebe.

“I—I have to go,” I mutter, stumbling toward the curb. There’s only one thought on my mind. One thing spurring me forward and that’s my goddaughter.

“Bishop”—Willow steps in front of me, her eyes a watery mix of pity and profound agony—“please let me help. I’ve got a driver. We can take you.”

This woman. I don’t deserve her. Through the haze of agonizing pain, it occurs to me she lost her father, her only remaining parent, and her first thought was to come here and make sure I was okay. She came to me so neither of us was alone.

“I need to—shit.” I nod and take a step to follow her, only barely keeping my knees from crumbling. “I need to get to Phoebe. Her parents?—”

Fuck I can’t say it out loud. That makes it real. And I’m not ready for that. Yet I know it is.

Willow nods and wraps her hand around my bicep, leading the way. Which I’m grateful for considering I’m seconds away from my knees buckling and losing it right here on the steps of the courthouse.

Today was supposed to be a happy day.

We’re six feet from the black sedan when a short man with horn-rimmed glasses comes out of nowhere, blocks our path, and shoves a small handheld microphone between us.

“Do you have any comment on the future of the Renegades?”

My gaze darts down to the lanyard around his neck that reads news something or other.

How the fuck?

I clench my fists at my side, and if it wasn’t for Willow’s steady grip, I have no doubt one of them would have already connected with his face.

“We don’t know anything. I’ll refer you to the Renegade’s press office.”

Glancing over at Willow, I nearly stumble back at the sight of the mask that envelopes Willow’s face.

Despite her tearstained cheeks, she remains calm and collected in the face of this asshole reporter. I hate it and everything it represents. It’s a stark reminder of exactly who she was raised to be and who she never wanted to become.

“But as the new owner?—”

“The what?” I interject, confusion furrowing my brow.

The gangly reporter looks between us, realization dawning on his features.

---