Page 137 of These White Lies
My vision tunnels, red flooding the edges. I want to break him, snap him in half.
“Brady!” Vincent’s voice is harsh. “Alive. We need him alive to get her back.”
The words cut through the fog. My hand is still locked on Seth’s wrist, his body trembling, his eyes rolling with pain. I force air into my lungs, fighting the urge to keep going.
He whimpers, going limp.
“Clock’s ticking.”
“She was with Ray,” Seth gasps. “We didn’t plan to take her tonight. But once Anna saw her, she said we couldn’t waste the opportunity.”
“Where?” My grip tightens.
“West Paces,” he blurts. “Her estate. The one with the gate. You won’t get in?—”
I slam his head against the wall hard enough to daze him. Not enough to kill, no matter how much I want to.
I stand, chest heaving. The panic clawing inside me hardens into something resolute. The red haze recedes just enough for the cold to settle in.
“Finn.” My voice is hard as steel. “I want eyes on every Lindquist property on West Paces. Blueprints, traffic cams, satellites, everything.”
“Already working it,” he says, voice clipped.
Sera keeps her weapon at her side, her breathing labored, and for a second I feel a tinge of remorse that she saw me like this, but then her eyes lift to mine.
“Avenger.” She mouths, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
I look down at Seth. His body sags, eyes glassy, blood covering his face. “Get him in the van.”
I’m going to get Elizabeth. And anyone who gets in my way will not leave that house breathing.
39
ELIZABETH
My body is heavy, uncooperative. A thick fog clings to my mind, like I’ve had too much wine and the room won’t stop tilting. I try to lift my head, but everything feels slow and disconnected. There’s pressure under my arm—someone is holding me upright, dragging me. My bare feet scrape uselessly across polished tile.
“She’s had too much to drink,” a man says with an easy laugh near my ear that makes my skin crawl.
I blink hard. My vision clears just enough to catch the exit sign glowing above a door as we pass beneath it.
I’m not drunk. I remember that now. I remember Ray. The hallway. The bathroom.
The man adjusts his grip, his arm locking across my back beneath my shoulder blades. He steers me—more accurately, carries me—toward a car idling at the curb with the back door already open.
My heart hiccups.
I thrash against his hold, forcing him to shift and adjust his grip. My tongue is thick, and my lips tingle, but I suck in enough air to scream?—
The taser hits before I can make a sound.
It slams into my side under my ribs, the jolt tearing through me like a river of fire through my body. My shoulders snap forward, muscles locking in a violent spasm so tight it feels like my bones might splinter.
The worst part isn’t the first hit. It’s that it doesn’t stop.
The charge keeps pouring in. My jaw clamps shut, cutting off the cry stuck in my throat, and I can taste blood. By the time it ends, my legs are dead weight. My vision tunnels to black. They lift me off the ground, and my body surrenders to the dark.
I come back as they drag me out of the car, gravel cutting into my bare feet. Where are my shoes? My phone?
