Page 38 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“Evening, ma’am,” a deep voice calls. “I’m Detective Murray. I’d just like to talk.”

Why is there a detective at the door? My first blindly fearful thought is that I’ve been found out. The Sanctuary hired a detective to track me down, drag me back, hold me accountable for the crime I’d committed over a year ago now.

That can’t be happening, right? There’s a logical little voice in my head going on and on about how far-fetched that is.

But it’s drowned out by the screams of panic. Emotions ping through my extremities, reminding me of that terrified, lost girl who’d run across the desert with bloody feet and a raging fire behind her in the night.

The night I’d methim—my protector. One year later, and I’ve still never thought of him as anything else.

Whenever we talk about it, Charity is dismissive. She still thinks he was a bad man with bad intentions. But in the rare, quiet moments when I allow myself to think back on what happened, that is how I think of him.

As a guardian angel.

I saw the war raging in his eyes—and yet he helped me anyway. He saved me when I was too weak and feeble to save myself.

“Ma’am?”

I jerk out of my trance. I tend to do that a lot. Slip into the past, lose myself to people I used to know. I’ve shut out so much of my past life that it surfaces in random moments when I least expect it.

The detective pounding repeatedly on the door is not helping me keep my demons at bay.

It’s not unusual to have cops come to the shelter. Sometimes, the women who find their way here are brought by police. Or else they’re fleeing demons of their own—abusive spouses, criminal pasts—and the cops come calling for other reason.

I’ve grown used to dealing with men in blue asking pointed questions. I don’t like it, but I do it.

But for some creeping reason, this feels different in a way I like even less.

“Ma’am, I just want to talk. Can you open the door, please?”

He’s polite—for now. But I know from experience that he probably won’t stay that way for long. Especially if he thinks I’m trying to hide something.

So I swallow my fear and open the door.

The man standing there is tall and lean. In his forties, I’d guess, but he looks good for his age. His eyes dart past me into the shelter.

Immediately, I stiffen. My bad vibe radar is pinging off the charts. “What can I help you with, Detective?” I ask.

He smiles. My stomach twists instantly. I don’t like his smile at all. All shiny, almost pretty.

But sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts deep.

“I’d like to speak to Ms. Charity Longoria.”

I frown. “Charity?”

He nods.

“What about?”

“I’d prefer to discuss that matter with her, Miss…” He trails off, waiting for me to offer up my name.

“Charity’s not in at the moment,” I say instead.

He raises his eyebrows, though the smile never leaves his face. I want to cringe, but I don’t want to antagonize him any more than necessary.

“Funny. I saw her running up to this very building not fifteen minutes ago.”

Shit.I stare at him, but I’ve never had much of a poker face.Ironic, really, considering the many secrets I’ve kept all these years.

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