Page 28 of Wicked Things
“We’re your bosses new protégés,” Sal offers helpfully, slapping Michael on the shoulder. “We heard you dropped the ball.” He tuts, shaking his head. “Forshame.”
I wheel on him, charging back across the darkened living room I find myself in, and I shove him hard, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Shut your fucking mouth. This isn’t his fault.”
Sal grins maniacally. “Isn’t it?” I raise a fist, flaring my nostrils, ready to smash my hand through his fucking head. Sal holds his hands up, laughing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just observing the facts. You asked your boy here to watch your girl, and she was snatched right out from under his nose.”
Theo places a hand on my arm—the one I’m using to pin his brother to the wall. “Let’s all take a moment to breathe. Sal, do as the man says and stop talking. You’re not endearing yourself to anyone right now.”
Sal bares his teeth, like he could give two shits about making himself endearing, but he gives a curt, resentful nod, inclining his head. I let him go.
“You two should go to the Blood and Roses gym over on Rosemont and Sacks. We’ll come and find you there once this has all been ironed out,” I say.
Theo’s mouth twitches. “And miss the perfect opportunity to observe how the infamous Zeth Mayfair metes out justice? I don’t think so.”
“I wasn’t asking.” The words are barely comprehensible. I’m so angry, wound so tight, that my speech comes out in a gravel-filled snarl. “You’re just going to get in the way. I won’t be held responsible for what happens to you if you cause trouble right now.Go to the gym.”
A silent confrontation follows. I don’t back down. Theo’s dark eyes are calculating and clear, annoyance clear as day shining from them. Still, he shrugs his shoulders, motioning to Sal. “C’mon. Let’s go. We can entertain ourselves, I’m sure.” Something in the way he says, “entertain ourselves,” makes me second-guess my decision to send them away, but it’s done now. I’ve dismissed them. And really, how would they be of any fucking help?
I pace the room from one side to the other as the two Barbieris leave. Once the front door slams closed, Michael starts talking. “He’s right, you know. Sal. This is my fault. They did take her right out from underneath me. I should have been—”
I wave him off, rubbing at my temples with my fingertips. “Stop. Enough. You can’t watch her every second of every waking day, no matter how hard I might have you try.”
“But—”
“But nothing. This would have happened either way. These motherfuckers would have found a way to take her if they were really serious about it, no matter what.” It would be very easy for me to blame Michael for this. I’m blinded by my fury at the moment, and taking it out on him would feel justified. I know my friend, though. Iknowhim. He’s diligent. He loves Sloane almost as much as I do, for fuck’s sake. The fact that she’s been taken is eating him alive. If I were to lie this at his feet, it would physically crush him.
“Where do we start looking?” I ask, my voice flat.
Michael makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. “Fuck. Without knowing what direction they headed in, I—I don’t know.” I can hear the pain in his voice, how hard it is for him to admit that. I can’t handle hearing the words, though. They make me feel fucking helpless. I pick up the closest object and hurl it at the wall, shouting out my rage. A vase smashes into a thousand pieces, sending tiny shards of glass scattering through the air. A polished silver bookend is next. A photo frame. A heavy wooden clock. The wall is dented and cracked by the time I run out of things to throw, but it’s not enough. I curl my fingers into a fist, and I throw all my weight behind the punch. My knuckles connect with the plasterwork. I lash out again, again, again, roaring at the top of my lungs.
Michael’s hands are on me, clamped on my shoulders, pulling me back. I fight him off, picking up a glass coffee table and hurling that, too. The crash of broken glass is deafening. The sound must bring me back to my senses. I stand there, chest heaving, surveying the destruction before me, my mind reeling.
She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s been taken.
“Who’s house is this?” I pant.
“It’s mine,” a voice behind me says. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen: a woman I didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on again. Pippa Newan. Her right hand is heavily bandaged around what looks like a metal framework, and her whole arm is bound to her torso. She’s as white as a sheet, dark circles under her eyes, her lips tinged with blue, her hair tangled in random snarls all over head. In short, she looks like shit.
“You live in that apartment over—”
“I moved,” she informs me, cutting me off. “Just had the place decorated.”
I look again at the mess I’ve made, and I just don’t have it in me to fucking apologize. I sink down onto my knees. I’ve found myself in some pretty fucking dire situations before. I’ve been held at gunpoint; I’ve been attacked by groups of vicious bastards in prison; I’ve been half-drowned, and shot and stabbed. I’ve been hit by moving cars, and I’ve been trapped inside burning buildings. But never,neverhave I felt this close to death before. Because if Sloane is gone…there is nothing left for me.
A hand lands on my shoulder. I expect it to belong to Michael, but when I look up it’s Pippa who’s standing next to me. She looks like she’s been crying, her cheeks mottled with patches of red, her eyes bloodshot. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You know what she’s like. She’s strong. Youknowshe’s going to be okay. I’ll help you any way I can.” Her features are set with determination. How did she even come to find out about this? How the fuck did Michael end up here, at her place? A million unanswered questions fire around the inside of my head, but I don’t have the time or the energy to ask them now. I need all of my mental focus trained on finding Sloane.
I take a deep breath. I’m about to get up. I’m about to drag myself to my feet, to pull myself together and start formulating a plan of action, when my phone chimes in the back pocket of my jeans. A cold, stony fist squeezes around my heart. Somehow, I fucking know the message I’ve just received is about her, and for a second I’m too worried to look. Michael holds out his hand.
“Give it to me. Let me see,” he says softly.
I’m numb as I hand over the device. Michael reads quickly, his mouth flattening into a grim, straight line.
“Well? What is it?”
He looks down at me, where I’m still kneeling in amongst a debris field of shattered furniture and broken glass, and he looks like he’s struggling to find his voice. Eventually, he speaks, and my blood run cold.
“You’re not going to like it.”
THIRTEEN
