Page 87 of Ace

I know that much at least. I'm not guilty, and it's crazy that we have to act guilty because of how this situation can be perceived.

I feel like a failure to my generation for not having numbers memorized because I've grown too accustomed to having technology right at my fingertips. I'd die the first day in a damn apocalypse situation without a doubt.

"I know a place we can go," he says as he pulls back out onto the road.

I watch him, terrified of what our family has become. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror as if he's scared William is following us.

"I think he killed Petal," I whisper. "I haven't seen her in days."

"I don't understand what's happening," he says, his voice laced with unshed tears, and if he wasn't driving, I'd wrap him in my arms and vow to protect him.

"I don't either," I whisper instead.

The drive gets longer, the miles from our tainted family home growing and growing. I feel Faye's blood drying, tightening my skin, so I sit as still as my traumatized body can manage becausethe feel of the caked blood cracking when I move threatens to make me sick.

"He was supposed to be in DC," I mutter. "Apparently he lied about that, too."

"He was?" Chris says.

"What did he say over text to get you to come home so quickly?"

I watch as my youngest brother shrugs. "He said there was another family emergency."

I watch the side of his face, sadness swimming inside of me because we'll never be the same after this. Our family is ruined, not only in name but in value.

"Why kill Faye?" I ask out loud because I just can't wrap my head around it.

"I don't know. Maybe she did something to piss him off?"

"He's so meticulous about everything. He's controlled."

"Clearly not," Chris mutters.

Chapter 37

Ace

"Fuck," I snap when I get her voicemail for the fifth time.

"Still having trouble getting a hold of her?" Hemlock asks, from behind the wheel of the SUV.

"I need you to find William Preston," I snap.

"I'm looking," Wren says, his voice coming through the speakers in the SUV.

Although we pulled Elliot Hockley from his bed in the Columbia, South Carolina hotel he was staying in, our little field trip of “tell us what you know” carried us over an hour outside of the city, something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but has done nothing but fucking stress me out since.

"His name shows up on a manifest for a flight to Washington, DC this morning," Wren says.

"So he isn't in town?" I confirm.

"Wait," Wren says, the sound of clicking keys filling the SUV.

"That's not good," Jericho mutters from the back seat as if he can predict Wren is about to give us bad news.

"It looks like he missed the flight," Wren mutters. "Motherfucker."

"Are you sure?" I growl, wishing I was behind the wheel because this vehicle would be fucking flying.

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