Page 53 of Walking in Darkness
I could only pray that she was safe and okay. Pray she didn’t regret what she’d done. I hoped some way, someday, I’d be able to repay her.
I carefully peeked around the back of the booth again, and I breathed out the strain when the officer moved to the counter to order.
I turned back to Pax, my voice quieted. “She’s just a customer.”
His nod was tight, and he busied himself by staring into his coffee. He didn’t look up until the door swung open again and she exited.
On a heavy exhalation, he scrubbed a flustered palm over his face. “Fuck. This is getting messy.”
My nod was slow. He grabbed his phone, and I knew he was searching the local news again. Antsy that something had changed. That someone had come forward and reported that they’d seen us. Had witnessed it all.
I expected there to be nothing, until Pax’s pale face completely drained of color, blanching a pasty white. Anxiety jolted my heart into an erratic beat as I watched him from across the table, apprehension curling through my being as I waited.
His eyes frantically flicked back and forth as he read.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I pleaded, so quiet the sound barely broke the air.
He didn’t answer. He simply turned the phone to me. It was an article, the headline readingLocal man shot dead after closing pizza shop.
I wanted to scan the story. To take in the details that outlined what was known of the crime and understand what had caused Pax so much alarm.
But I didn’t need any of that.
I only needed the picture to know.
Only needed the image of a man who was probably in his forties.
A man with the palest gray eyes.
A Laven.
And he wasn’t part of our family.
Chapter Seventeen
Pax
“I can’t believe this. I feel sick,” Aria whispered from where she leaned against the headboard on the bed next to me, her legs drawn to her chest and her cell resting on her knees as she scrolled.
We’d been here for the last two hours, searching news stories from random cities.
We’d started close.
Chicago.
We’d been staggered when we found reports of three people, clearly Laven, who had been killed there that week.
All of questionable causes.
Violent.
Two gunshots.
One hit-and-run.
Their faces imprinted on the screen like blades driven into the centers of our chests. Unfamiliar faces we still could recognize.
So we’d extended the search, looking through news stories from both large cities and small towns. We’d seen the death reports of Laven after Laven stretched across the States.
