Page 23 of Flame
Chapter Five
“Hannah?”
I tense at the sound of my name before my body registers the cadence of the voice speaking it.
“I’m here,” I croak, feeling along the floor as I stand.
An overhead light switches on, bathing the room in an orange glow—as well as revealing the pile of chaos I’ve left in my wake. I’m standing on a stack of overturned documents, marred by a muddy footprint that looks suspiciously like it might belong to my sandal. Out of guilt, I shuffle the pages together and attempt to return them to the nearest table.
The topmost one catches my eye as I try to shove it inside a folder. It’s a slip of paper with the city police emblem emblazoned across the top. Beneath that is a list of what seems to be names. Several of them have been crudely circled in red ink.
One, in particular, catches my eye, halfway down the page—Branden Dewitt.
“Hannah?” Rafe stands a few feet away, his back to me. “Where are you?”
I snatch the list, tucking it into my bag. “I’m over here!” I approach him slowly, sensing even before I come close that something is horribly wrong. “Rafe…”
He’s leaning to one side, heavily favoring that leg. His left hand clutches at his chest, and a telltale smell tickles my nostrils, growing more potent by the second.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, scanning his frame for any other signs of injury—which I find in a spattered trail of blood leading from the hall, tracking his entry. “What happened?”
Groaning, he hobbles to a sturdy table nearby and braces his hands over it. “Give me a hand,” he demands, his voice hoarse. “Black case in the corner.”
With the words barely out of his mouth, he slumps forward, knocking the table off balance.
I lurch toward him. “Rafe—”
“Just get the fucking case,” he grates, lifting a hand to ward me off. “Please…”
I whirl on my heel, struggling to follow his instructions. The room is a maze of stray materials. Stacks of canvases. Boxes piled high with random equipment. Stray slabs of plywood lean against the wall, obscuring a shelf in a far corner. On it, I find a black leather construct resembling a briefcase.
I bring it to Rafe, setting it beside him.
“You don’t look good,” I rasp. He’s shaking, barely capable of supporting himself on trembling hands. Still, he risks that precarious balance to grab the case, dragging it toward him. For all the effort, he fumbles with the latch. “Fuck—”
“I’ll do it.” I unlatch the top of the case, opening it to reveal a sight that takes my breath away. Fear constricts my throat, and all I seem capable of doing is whispering, “Rafe…”
“Don’t,” he warns before overturning the case entirely, allowing the contents to spill out onto the table’s surface. Money. Stacks and stacks of crisp bills, each secured with a rubber band. There have to be hundreds. Thousands…
But the amount pales in comparison to what falls amid the scattered stacks, its shape unmistakable—a gun.
Rafe grabs for it first, tucking it into his pocket. When he reaches for a stack of cash next, droplets of blood drip from his fingers, staining a handful of bills. “Damn it.” He forms a fist instead, cocking his head in my direction. “I need you to grab it.”
I barely hear him. More blood is dripping from his chin, flowing from his split lip. Fresh bruising around his eye alludes to yet another blow. From one of Gino’s goons? From his uncle?
“Did you hear me? Hey, bunny!” He snaps his fingers beneath my nose, but he’s so weak they barely make a sound. Scarlet streaks the tips of them, painting a blazing path up his wrist…
Finally, I notice the gash slicing through the flesh of his left arm.
I snatch at his sleeve in alarm. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter. Listen to me!” He slams his hand over the table so hard I swear he dents the wood. However, the act drains him, and I lurch forward to grab his shoulder before he can pitch over entirely. His eyes flit up to mine, and I swallow hard at the agony I find in them. Along with anger. Volatile, infectious rage.
“We need to move,” he says, gasping with the effort. “Now—”
“You can barely stand up,” I hiss.
He shrugs to throw me off, but he’s so weak, he winds up swaying without the support. So he jerks his chin toward the stack of bills instead. “Grab the fucking money. Put it in your purse. Do it. Now.” Something in my expression makes him sigh. “Please.”
