Page 47 of The Lies We Steal

I was going to take everything from her.

Her joy. Her friends. Her secrets. Her fear.

It was all mine to take. All mine to steal.

“Yeah. I’m with you, but she wasn’t even in Ponderosa Springs when Rose was killed. And I doubt her uncle is going around talking to her about murdering girls.”

I did however need to proceed with caution. If we go after the wrong people, stepped on the wrong toes, harmed the wrong person, this entire operation would be over in twenty seconds flat.

“You defending her?”

I cut my eyes to Thatcher, his arms crossed over his chest, matching my stance. The wind pushing his slicked back icy hair out of order. The gray turtleneck and black jacket made him look older. More sophisticated. It was just another layer of his intimidation process.

Look the part. Act the part. But inside, that’s where you can rot in peace.

Inside you can be as evil and sinister as you desire. Thatcher believes in a mask. Hiding the world from what goes on beneath the surface.

I don’t.

I wear who I am. I have no reason to hide.

He fits into the social food chain with appearance and communication. But we are the only three who have seen what is really beneath Thatch’s frozen skin.

And because we know that, because we have him at a disadvantage, he despises the possibility of disloyalty. Of being betrayed.

“Does it sound like I’m defending her, asshole? I’m just stating facts.” I furrow my eyebrows angrily, stepping from around the booth so we are on an equal playing field.

If there was one thing I hated, it was being questioned about my loyalty. Especially to them.

Rook places a hand on my chest, “Pipe down, boys. Nobody get their panties in a wad. I’m not saying she knows about the murder. Just saying, I have a good feeling that she knows something about the drugs. I mean,” He scoffs out a laugh,

“Just look at her record. Not exactly a law-abiding citizen.”

“Well, not all of us have daddies who clear our records.” Now Thatcher is just being a dick. He is fully aware the price Rook pays at the end of the day for that favor from his father.

“How about we not get into daddy issues today, mm-kay American Psycho?”

I’d always admired that about Rook. His ability to laugh off pain, make a joke about something that would make anyone else angry.

Joining in on the fun, I sniff the air sarcastically, “Ignore him, it’s shark week.” I bump Rook’s shoulder with a smirk and a chuckle.

Always the one to dish it and never the one to like taking it, an annoyed look settles in his eye. Just as he raises both his fingers to each of us.

We had a direction, had another plan, another person of interest. As annoying as it was, we were getting closer. Each mark on our soul, all the blood we had spilled, it would be worth it in the end.

And now, I could have a little more fun with it.

“We have to be patient now,” I say, making sure they are all listening to me, “We watch Thomas. See how he moves, what he does.”

“And the girls?” Thatcher asks.

“We freak them out. Do what we need to insure their silence. Get whatever information from Briar we can in the process. But we do not lay a hand on them, not yet.” I warn.

We had to build up to that. Have them so paranoid they could barely blink in fear those seconds with their eyes closed would be the moment we would attack. Make them feel like every single moment we were watching, always there. Ready to pounce.

I wanted them haunted. I wanted them petrified and horror ridden.

Only then, when we had the proof we needed, we could finish what we’d started.

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