Page 29 of Golden Burn

My shoulders loosen, as does Harriet’s. “Let’s head back inside,” I say, trudging forward. She follows blindly. I stop, turn and grab my beanie from her head.

“Hey!” she shouts.

“As you said the other night. You’re not my wife yet. What’s mine is not yours until we sign the wedding certificate.”

She harrumphs and stalks past me, muttering a curse under her breath.

The ends of my lips twitch, but I force them to be still. Reacting means caring, caring means trusting, and trusting turns into other things that are too painful for me to process, even after all these years.

I follow her inside, shoving away the curiosity that has begun to bubble in replace of fury.

Cerbera has gotten too cocky. It’s time I send him a message he can’t ignore.

“How do we wake him?” Harriet asks. She follows my lead by removing her outer snow jacket and hanging it by the door, then strides over to the sunken living room. I take a seat on the single leather couch opposite our intruder.

Ford knocked out the man given the unfortunate task of spying on us. He’s young. Barely an adult if the pitiful attempt of a beard that covers his acne scars is any indication. The only thing he carries is a pocket pistol with four bullets, car keys, his personal iPhone, and his passport.

“Easy.” Ford steps toward the boy lying on the couch with his hands tied behind his back. He slaps him across each cheek in quick succession.

“Ford!” Harriet scolds.

The boy’s eyes flicker open, his chest heaving in a deep breath. His terrified gaze bounces between the three of us. Settling on me for the longest, zeroing in on my eyepatch.

“How long have you been tailing us?” I ask.

He opens his mouth and clamps it shut, then proceeds to shake his head like a dog with wet hair. His breathing intensifies, his aura reeks of panic. “I can’t—” He snaps his mouth shut again, lips pressed tight.

Ford places his foot on the couch and leans on his knee. “Can’t what?” He dangles a pocketknife from his hand.

“Please.” The boy stammers. “He’ll kill her. He said he’d kill her if I was caught.”

He fixes his attention on Harriet. Her fingers are in her mouth, teeth gnawing at her nails. She grimaces as she looks toward the boy. If anyone was going to be empathetic to his cause, it would be her.

“Don’t look at her,” I demand. “Look at me.” The boy does as I ask, his shoulders shaking. “Cerbera? Is that who you mean?” He doesn’t respond. Just bites his bottom lip and begins to cry.

Harriet gasps softly to my left. She turns her chin in my direction and widens her eyes as if to say ‘do something!’. I cross my legs, trying to give the appearance of ease, even though I can feel her gaze burrowing into my skull.

“Who does he have?” The boy drops his head, his sobs growing.

Harriet twitches. I warn her silently to not move. This could be a trap. He could be a boy with wonderful acting skills, tasked with getting close enough to strike a knife through either one of our necks. Harriet, clearly distressed, ignores my command. “We won’t hurt you. We promise,” she says softly. The boy looks up at her, hope shimmering in his watery gaze. “I promise.”

“Mysister,” he says. “He has my sister. She’s sick with cancer. She’s been in the hospital ever since our mom was arrested. He said he could kill her without anyone noticing. Swap her chemo drugs for a poison. He said—he said—”

“Sounds like he said a lot of things,” I cut him off. Ford watches me carefully.

My mind goes to war. My instincts are telling me to dispose of the boy, send Cerbera a message that we will not be watched like mice in a cage and we will not be toyed with. I have to remind him that I’m the one with the money, the resources and the power to make his business boom. And I will not be made to feel inferior.

But the tiny sliver of good left in my soul doesn’t agree. If he isn’t acting, then Cerbera has chosen the perfect chess piece to throw off the board. A young man desperate to save his only family, willing to play the part of child soldier for a cause that doesn’t even remotely care about him.

I shift my stance so I’m facing Ford. “Truth?” I ask, in regards to the boy’s plea. Ford has a way of sniffing the truth from beneath a steaming pile of lies. He’s never been wrong. Not since I’ve known him.

He nods.

“Dispose or dump?”

Harriet practically breaks her neck how quickly she turns to me. The boy on the couch whimpers like a puppy.

Ford shrugs.

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