Page 58 of Wicked Embers

“Yes to both questions. Why?”

“Because we’re going on a trip. Not too far—but if you want me to talk, I need to know I can trust you not to use this against Leigh.”

I frown, weighing the risk. This could be a trap. But if it brings me answers, what the hell. “Deal.”

“I’ll get dressed.” She steps closer and hands me her phone, her movements deliberate. “Here. To show you I won’t double-cross you.”

I glance at the device in my hand, her gesture heavy with meaning. It’s a measure of trust—one she wouldn’t offer unless she believed I’d honor it. Or maybe it’s calculated.

A subtle play that lets me know she has an escape plan if things go sideways. The thought lingers, prickling at my gut. Sabrina doesn’t strike me as someone who walks into danger without an exit strategy.

Still, I pocket the phone, my lips twitching into a wry smile. If this is her version of a white flag, I’ll take it—for now.

She turns, grabbing jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater, and sneakers, then hurries into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. The gesture of trust—or false security—makes me smile grimly. Either she’s trying to lull me into a trap, or she’s genuinely ready to help.

Right now, it’s a chance I’m willing to take if it means finally getting some fucking answers.

Chapter 22

RADOMIR

Fifteen minutes later, we’re driving through the desert in my SUV. Sabrina directs me to a secluded area I never knew existed. A handful of houses, a gas station, and a few small shops are scattered along the route, but we drive past them to a dead-end road. It terminates at a weathered log cabin, dark and silent under the night sky.

The place stirs a strange sense of unease in me. “What is this place?”

“It belonged to my father,” Sabrina says shortly.

She steps out of the car, her oversized bag slung over her shoulder, and climbs the steps to the porch. Dropping her bag, she drags a heavy chair toward the door.

“I can help,” I offer.

“I’ve got it,” she snaps. Balancing precariously, she retrieves a small box from the doorframe and pulls out a key.

“You could’ve just asked me to get it.”

“I’ve done this a million times,” she retorts, unlocking the door.

The cabin smells of neglect, the air thick with dust and stale wood. Every creak of the floorboards echoes, the weight of long-buried memories pressing down on the space.

“My father brought me here all the time when I was little,” Sabrina says, her voice distant. “He taught me how to hunt, how to survive. It was our special place.” She hesitates. “Until it wasn’t.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Instead, I follow her into the kitchen, where she sets her bag on a table and moves to an old stove.

“Did Leigh and her family ever come here?” I ask, feigning casual curiosity.

“Leigh came here a lot,” she says, crouching by the stove. “Mark did sometimes. Her mother? Not so much. Vivienne Dalton wasn’t exactly the nurturing type.”

“You didn’t like her?”

Sabrina snorts. “Vivienne cared about herself. That’s all. She barely noticed Leigh was alive."

“What happened to her?”

“Vivienne was killed,” Sabrina says flatly, pulling the stove loose from its casing.

“Need help?”

This time she nods, and together we slide the oven free. Sabrina reaches into a hidden compartment behind it, extracting three leather-bound books wrapped in protective covers.

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