Page 191 of The Darkest Chase

If you don’t want me to think you’re a giant snob, maybe don’t be such a sneering prick, I think glumly.

“All right. Give me half an hour. I’ll be there.”

“Lovely, Miss Grey. We’ll see you then.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be slimy, but it still sounds unclean.

I wrinkle my nose, then slide off my stool, stretching and rubbing my aching neck.

I head upstairs to change into something presentable—an instinct now, to cover myself as much as possible around Xavier—and leave a quick note for Grandpa on the kitchen table.

I glance into his room before I leave.

He’s folded up, sleeping with that little whistling snore he’s always had, a tiny squeaking whisper that used to make me giggle.

But his hands are bandaged.

The prescription bottle of anti-inflammatories on the nightstand looks nearly empty, when he shouldn’t run out for another week or two. That tells me it’s bad, and if he keeps going this way, he might accidentally overdose.

Oh, Grandpa…

Sneaking in, I kiss his wrinkled forehead, then ease the keys off his nightstand, folding them tight in my palm so they don’t jingle.

It's moonless when I step outside, the clouds low in the sky.

Even the streetlamps feel dimmer, turning the night into grey mud—or maybe it’s just my mood.

I hate seeing Xavier Arrendell this late.

Even worse, I hate the messy feelings about taking his dirty money, considering the source.

But it’s for my grandfather.

When it comes to family, I’m no better than anybody else. I guess my morals bend.

Only for Grandpa?

Wasn’t your moral compass spinning like a ballerina the second you joined Micah’s little schemes?

Oh my God, I can’t.

Not right now.

I still can’t process the whole DEA thing, and that takes a back seat to the bone-crushing way he ended things. I don’t need to show up at the big house upset and vulnerable.

Just the thought of what Xavier might do with that makes my gut lurch.

If that creep tries to hug me, I swear only one of us is leaving that house alive.

The truck does a lot of lurching of its own as I drive up the hill. It might just die on me again, but I wasn’t walking out there alone this late at night.

Still, the old girl makes it. Barely.

When I pull up, I see Joseph Peters has, in fact, left the light on for me. Just a lonely lantern next to the tall double doors, a gold beacon guiding me toward his slim, wary figure as I park the car and climb the steps.

He looks tired tonight. Troubled.

Maybe his conscience is starting to drag him down.

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