Page 25 of Devil's Riches

I nodded and followed him out the back door. He’d parked around the side, next to the old blue Honda that Greg had stolen after he ditched Nate’s car.

“Keys are in my pocket.” Nate dipped his chin toward the left side of his jacket.

I hurriedly took the keys and unlocked the trunk for him. He let out a grunt of satisfaction as he dumped his uncle into the small space. Then he straightened his shoulders and slammed the lid down.

“Get in,” he said curtly, motioning to the passenger seat.

I did as he said without a word, grateful for the fact that he’d saved me, even though he refused to actually refer to it as a rescue mission.

Five minutes later, we left Thunder Bay and turned onto the main stretch of road that ran along the coast, heading north to Arcadia Bay.

We didn’t say a single word to each other for the entire half-hour drive. I didn’t mind. It was a comfortable silence, like we were old friends, and for the first time in weeks I felt completely safe in his company.

I knew I probably shouldn’t feel that way, because he claimed that nothing had changed between us, but I simply couldn’t believe him. Something had changed a while ago, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

When we finally pulled into the Lockwood estate, Nate pulled Greg out of the trunk and put him back over his shoulder. “I think we should put him back in the bunker,” he said, tilting his head toward the woods on the far western side of the land.

See?a triumphant little voice whispered in the back of my mind. Somewhere along the line, Nate had started saying ‘we’ when it came to decisions that needed to be made. A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have wanted my input on anything at all, and he would’ve cut me down if I said a word against him.

I nodded. “Good idea.”

When we reached the bunker, we stepped down into the main space and dumped Greg’s unconscious body on the bed. As Nate busied himself with the chains and shackles, he issued an order to me. “Look around and see if he has some sort of first aid kit in here. I want to wrap his ankle where I cut it. We don’t want it getting septic.”

I found a white plastic container with a red cross on top of it in one of the back storage cupboards. “This looks promising,” I said as I pried the lid off. “Yup. Full kit.”

“Bring it here.”

We doused Greg’s right lower leg and foot with foul-smelling antiseptic liquid, dried it off, and wrapped a bandage around it.

“That’s good enough for now,” Nate said as he watched me secure the bandage with a bit of medical tape. “Let’s get out of here.”

“There’s definitely no way for him to escape, right?” I asked, anxiously glancing around the space.

“No.” Nate held up the key to the shackles. “I’m taking this with me.”

We left the bunker and secured the hatch. Then we trudged out of the woods and started heading across the grounds of the estate. There was no talk of me going back in the other bunker. Not yet, anyway.

I cleared my throat as we walked across a frosty patch of lawn. “I don’t know how much you heard when we were back in the house,” I said. “But Greg was the original Butcher. He framed my father.”

Nate nodded stiffly. “I knew about it before I got there. I found a box of tapes when I was looking for you two. He filmed himself killing people.”

My brows shot up. “Are you serious?”

“Yup. I saw every single tape. Even the one where he killed Emilie.”

The pain I saw in his eyes made me look away. It reminded me too much of my own. “Did you call the police?” I asked, figuring he didn’t want to linger on the subject of Emilie’s murder for too long.

“No. You had a good point a few weeks ago. The cops around here aren’t trustworthy. Not when it comes to all the old Butcher shit.”

“I guess we finally agree on something, then,” I murmured.

Nate went quiet for a moment. Then he glanced over at me. “Did Greg tell you much?” he asked. “About the murders, I mean.”

“He told me a few things. He said he killed a lot more than thirteen people, and that there were so many he couldn’t even remember the exact number. He also made some comments about keeping them for days or weeks before killing them.”

“Anything else?”

I frowned and rubbed the back of my neck. “He didn’t say why he killed them, if that’s what you mean, but he kept saying stuff about needing to do it. So I think he must feel some sort of compulsion to kill.”

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