Page 96 of Cruel Love

“Boxcar?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer her. “Hold on.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

I ignore her as panic rises in my chest.

Where did she go?

I mutter curses under my breath as I cycle through the feeds again. Archer and Lilah have gone back to the hallway, making their way toward the stairwell. I skip ahead, eyes twitching for anything. A shadow, a reflection. Anything that will pinpoint Myra’s location again.

“Where is she, Boxcar?” Lilah asks again.

“I can’t see her,” I say. “Must be a blind spot or—”

A shiver crawls down my neck, connected to the barrel of a gun.

“Don’t move.”

Her voice turns my blood cold.

“Put the laptop down and turn around. Slowly.”

I do as she says and raise my hands.

Myra stands behind me with two other agents dressed in black. She squints at me for a moment before her lips curl in recognition.

“Hey…” She tilts her head. “I know you.”

I look from her to the men standing behind her, holding my breath. “Yeah…”

She lowers the gun to her side. “Well, this is…” Her laugh shakes her sides. “Neat.”

“Cough if she’s out there, Boxcar,” Lilah says in my ear.

I cough twice.

Myra snatches the receiver from my ear. She holds it to her own and smiles. “Is that you, Lilah?” She giggles. “How nice of you to make my job so much easier…”

She listens for another moment with wicked, curling lips before nudging the man beside her. He steps forward around her and grabs my vest, forcing me to stand up as he searches me. He quickly finds the revolver tucked into my belt. I mourn the loss of my wife’s good luck charm. He pops open the cylinder and dumps the golden bullets into his palm.

Myra yanks my cables out of the security box, severing any connection it had. “Take him out and shoot him,” she says as she forces the receiver deeper into her ear. “Don’t take too long — and don’t leave him too close to the house. I don’t want his corpse stinking up my herb garden.”

His middle-aged eyes shift back to me before he slides a single bullet into the cylinder and closes it. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

He grabs me by the scruff of my shirt and shoves me toward the woods.

“Hands up,” the man says, jabbing the gun into my back. “Put ‘em on your head.”

I entwine my fingers behind my neck as I march into the woods.

I’m sorry, Caleb.

I’ve never been the praying type, but I whisper one to myself anyway.

I’m sorry I screwed up and got caught.

I’m sorry I’ll never get to meet our baby.

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