Page 88 of Hell and High Water

“Sometime this century, Michaels.”

“How about no? Not until you get that fucking thing out of my face and treat me like a regular person.”

“And let you try to make a mad dash for your car? Hell no. I’d have to shoot you, and then tie you up, and… big ol’ mess.”

“I won’t run. Just… please. Fill me in and stop toying with me!” I snap.

Her chuckle in response has my hackles rising. She is pushing me to my limits.

“Damn, girl. You've got some big brass balls, don't you?”

“I just don't like guns. Okay? And I’ve found I generally don't like the people who point them at me.” My teeth grind as she nudges me once with the barrel, clearly trying to make me lose it.

Breathe. Breathe. Clear your head.

I stay still, staring straight ahead, until the pressure disappears and I hear her holster the weapon.

“That's fair enough. I don't know of anybody who likes a gun pointed at ’em, to be honest.”

She talks like we're old friends. Like we've known each other for years.

One long sigh later, I’m stepping into the house. It’s musty, a little dank.

I take a turn of the small living room, the bulk of the house stretching undivided from the living room right into the dining room and into the kitchen. It’s tiny, to be honest.

The dingy couch is the only seat aside from the single chair at the table, covered in a patina of dust. Everything is, like no one has been here for a few years.

And I have a pretty good idea of who the last person was.

Something about the place feels familiar.

The woman saunters inside, pushing the door closed. In the shadowed entryway, I can just make out her features, clad in a black leather jacket, tight fitting utility pants, and calf-high boots. The early morning light clipping through the closed shutters casts her in stark relief.

Still, she’s clearly attractive.

Stunning, in fact.

“Don’t suppose the lights work?” I drawl, poking my tongue into my bottom lip and raising an eyebrow.

“Who knows?” She flicks the switch. “Nope, looks like Daddy didn’t pay the bills.”

“Yours or mine?” I quip, turning and wandering around the back of the couch toward a large wooden buffet table along the back wall. A few picture frames sit face down along its dust-whitened surface. I hesitate to flip them over, for some reason, feeling squeamish all of a sudden.

“Clever. Would you believe me if I said that assumption would be pretty close either way?” Her voice is sharp, meaningful, but filled with a hint of humor and mockery. “Except it was my grandfather who was from the Harbor originally. My daddy brought me hunting near there a few times, though.”

Hunting for people?

I bite my tongue to keep from insulting her outright.

“Seems like all roads lead back to Sanctum.” I huff a humorless laugh as I look back toward her, narrowing my eyes. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here. Not really. Not unless you just happened to stop in for a trip down memory lane?”

“Hardly.” She sighs, stepping into the room and slapping the window slats open one by one. Several clatter to the floor, snapping off their hinges.

She frowns down at the mess, shaking her head.

“What do I have to do with any of this? What do you want?”

“I want some answers. I want to understand why I was hired to come here.”

---