Page 37 of Oliver

“Wait,” I say, and he drops back into his seat with a scowl.

“You hear anything I said?”

“I just want to know…you’ve heard of the Hunter’s Club?”

He eyes me silently before slowly nodding.

“Okay,” I exhale shakily, “is Frank McCafferty really missing?”

It’s a long shot but I’m here and if Bone is speaking the truth, Hate works for the mafia, which if I recall, so does Diem McCafferty and by extension, this Frank character. He would know about either of them, I suspect.

Hate shakes his head and crosses his arms. “You better hope he is because if he gets wind of you sniffing around…”

“What if it was someone you loved? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

His jaw twitches and he looks away. After a moment, he says, “There are no secrets round here. I was given a message for you…”

“A message?” I whisper, and when I only stare at him, he sighs and sets an image on the table before pushing it toward me.

For a moment, I can’t breathe before I force myself to look down and blink. It’s the creepy house, the one Dixie and her friends partied at. Where I forced Maeve to come along and we found other pictures, just like this one…except, standing on the front porch is me and Maeve from that day.

Okay, I knew someone was in that creepy house, but having it confirmed doesn’t make me feel any better. Now I know someone was watching us, but was it Dixie’s killer?

“Who?” I ask but he just shakes his head.

“Don’t matter. Back off. Let this shit go before you end up dead.”

Slapping the table, I lean forward ignoring his scowl. “You stroll in here with threats and expect me to just nod and say yes? Fuck you! Who gave you this picture?”

“Someone with a lot more than you have, kid,” he says.

“Like what?” I ask as he stands and adjusts his shirt.

“Secrets they’re willing to trade. You back off, here me?” he asks, his hard blue eyes boring into mine.

For a moment, all I can focus on is the terror clenching my chest. Someone was there while we searched that house. Is it the same person who left the rabbit’s foot on my car? Or fuck, the box full of them now hidden in my front closet.

This is the ultimate in fucked up shit and I don’t have a clue what to do about it. I’m a fucking teenager, for fucks sake.

Clutching my chest, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, but the panic is still squeezing my lungs like a vice.

“Yo, you hear me?" he asks again, waving his hand in front of my face.

“How do I do that? Whoever this is knows who we are,” I whisper.

“Tell McCafferty,” he says, and I shake my head.

“You don’t seem to understand what’s going on,” he growls, and I smack my hand on the table.

“What if he did it? What if it was one of them?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Then you’re already fucking screwed.”

Dropping my head to the table, I wince when the coffee sloshes over the rim and splatters my hand. “I just want to know who killed my sister.”

“You willing to die to know?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper and that’s the truth of the matter. Some days, death feels preferable to this aching hole in my chest.

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