Page 51 of The Oath We Give

“I don’t owe any of you an explanation for my involvement. Don’t sit there and act like you know me.”

“This is all very convenient for you,” Thatcher presses, adjusting the lapels on his jacket. “You know nothing. You’re in the dark. You are just an innocent bystander.”

“I told you I don’t know where he is.”

“Where is the money coming from, then?”

Sweat pools around Easton’s collar as he closes his mouth, rolling his lips together. The air around him has a tang to it, resentfulness and hostility, like a dog snarling before attacking, hackles raised.

“I’m smarter than you, Sinclair. It’s not very hard to do the math. You and your mother haven’t so much as blinked since he was arrested. On paper? You both should’ve lost everything. Yet—” Thatcher quirks an eyebrow, spreading his arms wide. “—here you are, living amongst the wealthy as if nothing has happened.”

I shift the gun as he moves, leaning back into the chair and rubbing his swollen jaw before crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Your dad is an asshole, but Wayne Caldwell takes care of his mistress.” He flicks his eyes at Alistair, digging a familiar knife into his chest. “Paying for my mother’s silence has a nice price tag.”

The leveling of his words leaves us speechless. My grip tightens on the gun, my eyebrows creasing. I want to say I’m surprised, but Alistair’s father has been sleeping around with Leah Sinclair for years.

There is weight in his words, a weight I wish didn’t exist.

“Don’t believe me?” He arches an eyebrow. “Statements are in my office. Code to the safe is 6598.”

“My father can put his money and dick in whatever trash he wants,” Alistair grunts. “I want insurance.”

“Call fucking State Farm, Caldwell.”

I press the cold metal of the gun hard against his temple, and I feel him flinch. I lean in closer, my breath on his cheek, the smell of alcohol and days of sweat stuck to his skin.

“Proof, Sinclair. Proof you’re not helping your father.”

I watch his Adam’s apple contract; the fear of a bullet hangs heavy in the air, pressing against his skin like a physical weight that no amount of alcohol can free him from.

“If I help you.” His breath comes out shaky. “Then I want something out of it.”

I can feel the corner of my mouth begin to twitch, forming a rare expression: a smirk. I raise my eyebrows, sneering down at him with contempt.

“How about you give me your fucking IP address and I don’t splatter your fucking brains on the wall?”

Book made for [email protected]

TWELVE

SNOWDROPS

CORALINE

The thudof a paint can spilling across the floor echoes behind me.

Sticky, acrylic liquid stains the bottom of my feet as I scramble to find my keys, shoving my feet into the first pair of shoes I spot near my front door. There is a candle burning on the stove I don’t bother blowing out.

Let it burn.

Ten minutes ago, I was home alone, heavy music playing over the speakers in my apartment, lost in what was going to be my new favorite painting.

Ten minutes ago, everything was fine.

My feet slap against the stairs to the parking garage, and I unlock my car before I even hit the landing. A man presses himself against the door leading to the garage, holding it open for me with a bewildered look on his face.

I’m a shock, I’m sure.

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