Page 157 of Mess With Me

Did he love her too? He had to have.

Griffin.My heart hurts so badly it’s hard to breathe.

The man is saying something to my brother. I focus, needing to hear.

“If I don’t find the money exactly where you say it’s going to be, you’re fucking dead, Macklin. So is your pretty sister—and her fireman, too.”

My stomach turns again. He was more observant than Vincent Creelman. He knew I knew who Griffin was that day. He just didn’t knowwhohe was. Does he know now?

I swallow down the sob caught in my throat. Or is it a scream? I can’t tell. Terror and rage are at war inside of me.

Please be telling him the truth, Sam. Please.

“You’ll find it,” Sam snarls. I can hear the rage in his voice, too.

The man’s still a minute longer, then he shoves the gun back in his waistband and disappears through the door.

For a moment, everything is still. Then I can’t help it, a sob chokes out of my chest.

“Sasha—”

“No!” I yell, turning all my anger on Sam. The pain of yelling makes my eyes burn with tears. I look away. I don’t want him to think I’m shedding tears for him. He got us into this. “Don’t talk to me.”

“There’s no money, Sasha.”

My breath catches.

Then my stomach sinks to the floor. Of course. He was lying. He’s killing us both. “You’ll never stop, will you?” I whisper. “It’s always about you—”

“God dammit, Sasha. Would you give me a chance to explain?” Sam yells.

He spits a dark glob onto the floor, wincing.

For a moment, I can’t speak. All I can think of is Griffin, back in the city. Maybe on his way here. Hours, miles, years away from me.

And I never got to tell him I love him.

“We have time,” he says, “but not much. He’ll be back in under an hour.”

“Then we need to find a way to get out of here.”

I look around wildly. This is less a cabin than a shack—maybe an old hunting shack or something. There’s a hollowed-out space where it looks like there used to be cupboards. An overturned bucket lies in the corner, along with a pile of rags. And there’s the couch—an ugly, stained love seat that looks like an animal’s nested in.

There’s nothing sharp. Nothing to even rub these ties against.

Hopelessness threatens to settle in, but I refuse to let it. I wriggle once more in my ties, each bit of movement sending pain ricocheting through my skull.

There has to be a way out.

“I’ve been here all day,” Sam says, his voice resigned. “There’s nothing. All I can do is tell you my side of things before Brick gets back.”

“Brick?”

“That’s what they call him. Please, Sasha. I can’t—we can’t—” His voice cracks. “I need you to know the truth.”

His voice is so full of pain I stop wiggling and meet his eyes.

No, his one working eye. He’s a mess. Besides his face, I notice his right shoulder bulges strangely.

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