Page 7 of Devil's Riches

I considered calling my mother to ask her, but I ruled out that idea almost immediately. She was clearly in on whatever the fuck was going on with her brother—in terms of him faking his death and living down in this secret bunker for ten years—and I didn’t want to rouse any suspicions in her. Not until I knew more.

Right now, all I knew was that she couldn’t be trusted.

A bolt of pain suddenly shot through my head, and I winced and raised my hand to the lump. It was bleeding again. Shit. I needed to get it under control.

I still didn’t want to go to a hospital, though. It would waste too much valuable time. I’d have to patch the wound myself or go and ask Colette for help.

“That’s it,” I muttered to myself, heart drumming in my chest. “Colette.”

She’d worked for my family for over thirty years. That meant she must’ve known my uncle when he was younger. She might even know enough about him to help me figure out where he’d decided to take Alexis.

She had first aid qualifications, too. It was part of her terms of employment—she had to keep up to date on stuff like that in case of emergency situations in the house. They were only basic skills, but I assumed they would be enough to get me patched up and ready to go.

I headed out of the bunker, through the woods, and toward the house. My car was gone, but that didn’t surprise me. Greg had stolen my keys earlier, so he was probably miles away by now.

Luckily, there were spare cars for me to drive. My mother had different ones for different occasions, and she wasn’t around to use any of them right now, because she’d recently gone overseas for a week.

I went inside and found the keys to the nearest one. Then I headed east on the estate, down a narrow, tree-lined road that led to Colette’s place.

When I arrived, her house was dark, and the only sound in the area was the soft trilling of insects. I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was 4:04 a.m. Colette wasn’t going to be happy at me for waking her so early, but she was going to have to get over it.

I pounded on the door until a light switched on. Colette appeared in a thick dressing gown a moment later, hair mussed and brows drawn. “Nate? What are you doing here?” she asked. She sounded like she was still half asleep.

“I need your help with this,” I said, turning to show her the bloody lump on my head.

She gasped and raised a hand to her chest. “What happened?”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Let me look at it in the light,” she said, hurriedly stepping aside so I could go through to the living room. She gestured for me to sit, and then she parted my hair and peered at my head. “This is bad, Nate. You need to go to the emergency room.”

“No.” I winced as she pulled my hair farther back to reveal more of the injured spot. “No hospital.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time. I have shit to do.”

“At four o’clock in the morning?” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes. So can you help me or not?”

She frowned and shook her head. “No. Like I said, you need to see a doctor. It looks like you need stitches.” She tilted her chin to one side. “How did you say it happened?”

“I fell on the stairs when I went to get some water,” I said. “I was half asleep, and I tripped halfway down and smashed my head on the ground when I landed.”

“Were you unconscious at all?”

“Yes.”

“For how long? A few seconds? A minute?”

I shook my head. “Longer. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”

Colette’s brows shot up, and she raised a palm. “Nate, life isn’t like the movies where a person can get knocked out and wake up totally fine a while later. Head injuries are a very, very dangerous thing. If you get hit hard enough to make you pass out for that long, you need serious medical attention.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Some people die or go into comas after being knocked out.”

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