Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
"Well, son of a…" Dillon scowls at the printer like it was holding out on him. "Why the fuck didn't I look there?"
"Probably because you can't read."
He flips me off before snatching his report out of my hands.
"You need to reprint it. That's illegible."
"It reads just fine."
"You're afraid to use the printer again, aren't you?"
"No." He shrugs. "Maybe. The fucker hates me. I don't know why the hell I had to get a new one. The old one worked just fine."
I shake my head. "You're too young to be so fucking old, Armstrong."
"Fuck off, Madden." He furrows his brows at me. "Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be babysitting Nina?"
"She's the reason I'm here. Her brother didn't set the fires."
Dillon freezes in the act of smoothing out his report, his eyes locking on my face. "What do you mean he didn't set the fires? Since when was that a fucking possibility? I explicitly asked you this morning about him being a suspect and you told me that he had football practice last night."
Shit. I guess I owe him an explanation.
"He did, but Nina has been worried he might have been responsible." I shove a hand through my hair. "It's part of what she's been so fucking worried about since the fire. But there's no way he did it because he has alibis for the last two fires."
"You said something was off about this one."
"Something is off about this."
"Are you intentionally trying to piss me off or does it come naturally to you?"
"Depends on the day. Right now, it's natural."
"Jesus Christ." Dillon laughs. "Just fill me in before I decide to tell your Chief to fire you."
"Her dad owed mobsters a fuckton of money before he died. They showed up trying to collect from her and Nate. I'm guessing they set the other fires to keep us from realizing this one was intended to be a murder," I say. "Except they weren't counting on her getting out alive."
"Jesus fucking…" Dillon breathes. "Does she know who they are?"
"She could pick them out of a lineup, but if you're asking if they gave her their names and socials, no," I growl, still pissed beyond measure. "I've got a phone number for one of them, but I'm going to guess it's a texting app that you can't trace."
"Give me everything you've got," Dillon orders, grabbing his notebook.
"The one in charge calls himself Alex. She says he's about 6'1", maybe 230 pounds, short dark hair, cold black eyes, a goatee, has a very slight accent," I recite while Dillon writes. "She thinks it could be Russian, but she isn't sure. No name for the other. About the same height, crewcut hair, hazel eyes, has a scar below his eyes, and a skull tattoo on the side of his throat. They drive a black Lexus, four door sedan, Texas tags. She hasn't gotten a tag number."
"Stolen?" Dillon muses, glancing up at me.
"Possibly." I tug at the roots of my hair. "We need to find her brother, man. Whoever the fuck they are, they're dangerous. They've already set a house on fire with her inside. God only knows what they may try next."
"Is it possible they already have her brother?"
"Jesus. He left a note that said he was camping, but…" I considered the same goddamn thing the whole way over here. What if they already have him, and that fucking note was just bullshit to keep her complacent? She was in the hospital all night. If they saw us pull her out of the house, they may very well have made a play for him. "We have to find him. He's all she's got, man."
Dillon jerks his chin in a nod. "I'll put everyone on it," he promises, worry in his eyes. "If she doesn't already know it's a possibility, try not to let her find out, Emmett. It'll break her fucking heart."
"Yeah, I know."
"You need me to put someone on her?"
"She won't be leaving my sight."
He jerks his chin in a nod. "I'll ask the sheriff in Granite Hills to step up patrol in her neighborhood until we find these motherfuckers."
"Find them quick," I growl. "They already tried to kill her once. We're not giving them another goddamn chance."
"Agreed," he says.
Chapter Eight
Nina
"Are you okay, Red?" Emmett asks, coming up behind me in the kitchen as I stare out into the backyard, thinking. We've been home for the last couple of hours, but we haven't talked much.
I don't really know what to say. I'm beyond relieved to know there's a good chance my brother didn't set the fire. I feel horribly guilty for thinking it was him. I'm worried about him. And a good eighty percent of my mind is on Emmett and the way he makes me feel.
I've thought about him so much today it's honestly starting to feel like my brain may need a restraining order. I've never wanted anything the way I want to burrow into his arms and feel his lips against mine again.