Page 29 of Hell and High Water

“Yeah, like The Daily Herald.” I sigh, some of it relief that they aren’t looking for Hellena, some of it another feeling, hard to put my finger on. Clarence is bright. Makes me wonder what he could be if he had a better lot in life.

“That’s great news, Clarence. But you promise me you don’t go looking for this person or get involved with the Drug King’s guys or these newcomers. They won’t pay you that money, you hear? A kid like you, they’ll kill you to keep the info and the cash.”

“I … I know.” He looks crestfallen.

“BUT. If you get wind of anything, you leave me a note at the usual spot, right? And I promise you that if I track her down and get that reward, you’ll get a cut, no doubt.”

“Really?”

“Fuck yeah. You deserve it. Now get the fuck out of my car and get home.”

“Yessir, Mister Vinny!” He scrambles for the door.

“Oh, and Clarence?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t go disappearing on me, alright? Stay safe. And get yourself something to eat.” I toss him the fifty Sloane gave me and another twenty.

Clarence’s eyes bug at the cash, and he only hesitates for a second before snatching it and vanishing into an alleyway. Good luck, kiddo.

Heading toward Tyler Jr.’s place gives me time to mull over what I learned.

Vice is looking for Rachelle.

If Devonde wants her too, it must be to make a deal with Vice, to use her as leverage. Or to give him access to Sinful resources. Hard to say.

Either way, Rachelle is the only person any of us know in regard to the Sinful. We need to be careful that no one but us knows where she is and pray that she wakes up soon to tell us what she knows.

I let the squeamish feeling building in my gut guide my character change back into my old self—the glasses, the ponytail, the ill-fitting clothes. Tyler Jr. spends most of his time indoors. A little foundation pales me to the right tone.

The smart car he drives is a piece of junk, but why would he need anything else?

It also adds another layer to the way Dad treats me when I’m him. He thinks anything less than our family’s generational status is cringy and trashy. Elitist garbage.

The mansion is quiet when I arrive, and the automated system is on. The guard house is empty.

Not a good sign.

I dig out my gate opener and let myself in, driving around back.

The house is dark, forlorn. More so than how it always appears to me, a place I never really felt at home in growing up.

My key opens the back door, but I already know what I’m going to find. No guards. No maids.

And no Mom or Shannon. The place is semi-packed up, like they left in a hurry and someone threw some sheets over furniture the next day. Probably one of the service staff.

Why would they not tell me?

Unless it was under duress.

Or my father had them leave to keep them safe. I hope that’s the case.

Heading out back, I open the guest house where my father usually spends most of his time. Again, empty.

“Come on, Dad. What the fuck is going on?” I try his cell, my mom’s. No answer.

Shannon’s too. That girl is on her phone twenty-four, seven. No way she wouldn’t see my call.

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