Page 88 of Roaming Holiday

He tilts his head, his expression reluctant. “I’ve answered your question. It’s only fair you answer mine. For example, we’ve done some research, but the only thing curious about you is your birth certificate. There’s no name listed under mother, and we can’t find any trace of hospital records in your birth city, either. Tell me, why?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. I don’t know why Mom isn’t on my certificate or how she managed to keep it hidden. The public might want to see it for proof she’s my mom. I make a mental note to ask Aunt Beverly later. If I ever see her again.

“A normal girl,” Arlo continues. “A college graduate—congratulations, by the way.”

After giving attitude to the man who threw my phone from the window, I ensure to remain somewhat polite with Arlo. I’m keenly aware of my limited knowledge, but he’s dangerous. That much I know.

“Thank you.”

“And yet you’re important enough here to need a security detail.”

“I—I’m not at liberty to say.”

He nods, sipping what looks like whisky. “I understand.”

“What business do you have with Wesley?”

With a pleasant smile, he echoes, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

I stare at him as an uneasy silence falls over the room. He’s at least middle-aged, but the wrinkles don’t deter from his intimidating nature.

My stomach drops when I hear a muffled “NINA!”

“Wesley?” I peer through the office’s glass wall for a hint of Wesley, but I don’t see him. I look at Arlo, my patience vanishing. If he wants to stop me, he’ll have to kill me. I yank the door open and hurry toward the voice.

“I wouldn’t go that way,” Arlo says cryptically. The fact that he’s not following me intensifies my fear. This is exactly what he wants me to do.

43

WESLEY

A pedestrian had bumped my shoulder. Then everything went black.

When I come to, I immediately realize that I was drugged. The prickle in my shoulder confirms it. My blood runs cold at the new environment.

Nina.

I scream her name despite the grogginess. I’m tied to a chair, my wrists bound by zip ties, in a plain room—an office. There’s a window behind me, aimed at a brick wall, a desk covered in an array of blades and weapons, and a clear tarp under me. The door in front of me opens, and relief floods my chest when Nina enters.

“Wesley,” she whimpers.

No one comes in behind her, so I say, “Run.”

Confusion crosses her eyes as she tugs at my restraints. “What? I’m not leaving?—”

“Stop,” I bark. “You have to run now.”

The dread prickles back into my body when two men enter. “Too late,” the first man says with a glass of brown liquor in hand. I recognize him instantly.

Arlo fucking Serrano. The brother of my dead boss, Santiago Serrano.

It doesn’t make sense. They hated each other. Santiago discussed making Arlo one of my targets, but never got around to doing it. After the explosion, Arlo absorbed his business. They have no loyalty, and I didn’t kill his brother.

“Leave her out of this, Arlo,” I grit. Whatever this is. My head spins from the aftermath of the tranquilizer and my wrists ache from the zip ties. I should start dissociating, filing through memories and safe spaces for the inevitable pain ahead. But I can’t. Not with Nina here.

“You know me! Oh, I’m flattered.” He leans down to eye level, his blue eyes clouded by wrinkles staring back at me. In a raspy voice, he says, “It’s him, all right.”

“Fuck off. Just let her go so you can tell me what the hell you want.” I have nothing for him. I worked in silence, made no alliances, and therefore hold no hidden information.

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