Page 12 of Property of Bones

It doesn’t take me long to locate the body slumped against the wall with blood pooling beneath him. Small hole in his forehead. Neat. Clean. Silencer.

Kid couldn’t be more than nineteen. Maybe twenty. Yellow shirt with a red vest. One of Marv’s stockers. Eyes still open, frozen in shock.

Shit. It’s Josh. The one we know was dealing Fentanyl. Damnit, I wanted to question him.

I crouch down, checking for a pulse I know ain’t there. Body’s still warm. Killer couldn’t be more than two minutes gone. Probably slipped out the employee entrance.

This wasn’t random. This was a hit.

I pull my phone and hitSpike.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“We’ve got a body at Marv’s. It’s Josh. He was shot with a silencer.”

“Fuck. Anyone see it? Where’s Riley and Abby?”

“They’re fine. Out waiting with Tank. Sunny witnessed it, though.”

Pause. Then, “You good?”

“I’m fine. She’s not. Call the cleanup crew and tell them to move fast. Store’s busy. It’s best if the police don’t get wind of it. Have the crew meet me in the back where they store their supplies.”

“Copy that. You want us to move her?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Got it.”

I hang up and rise, taking one last look at the body. Poor bastard got in over his head.

I head back, slow and alert, mind spinning.

We’re getting close to figuring this shit out and now dealers are being killed?

And if Sunny’s now a loose end?

They better pray they die before I get my hands on them.

I turn right and head for Marv’s office. I need to let him know what’s going on.

***Sunny***

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Riley asks me an hour later. “I know it’s a lot asking you to keep this quiet.”

Ignoring the spark of fear tearing through my body, I smile and nod.

“I’m sure,” I say, though my voice is thinner than I want it to be. “I’ll be fine. I’m guessing there’s a good reason you don’t want to call the police. I trust you.”

Riley doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes flick to Tank, who’s standing off to the side with his arms crossed and a look of danger on his face. It’s oddly comforting.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers, already moving before I can protest. “Don’t argue, darlin’. You look like you’re one wrong word away from a full-blown panic attack.”

He’s not wrong.

My stomach twists, and I have to press a hand to it like I canwillthe nausea away.

“Bones said you should head straight home,” Tank continues as we walk. “No stops. Lock the doors. Curtains drawn. We’ll follow you home and stay until you’re safe inside.”

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