Page 11 of Property of Chaos

“Not anywhere else she could have come from.”

“Could be an issue.” Fang’s mouth slowly curls into a grin. “Happy to sacrifice myself for the cause and do a little recon.”

“You’ll stay the fuck away.” My hands fist atop my thighs. I force them out flat and draw a deep breath to calm myself the fuck down.What the hell was that all about?

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay.”

“Don’t care what she thinks of us,” I clarify. “We don’t need some bitch who’ll call the cops every time we’re making too much noise, is all.”

“We’ve dealt with much bigger problems than her,” Jinx states, lifting his pen again as he drops his focus back to the sale agreement. “If she becomes a problem, we’ll have her run off within a week. Girl doesn’t look like she’d have the courage to stand up to a spider, let alone a fucking outlaw club.”

Fang reaches for the coffee pot, laughing. “Damn straight.”

I fold my arms over my chest and study the issue at hand as she ties her apron off, shoulders rising with a deep breath. Not sure what the fuck these assholes are looking at, but what I see is a woman who’s already faced down a fucking army of spiders and now pays the price for it.

She circles her left hand around her right wrist, rubbing at the flesh before absently plucking at the hair tie circling her arm. Her painted lips are parted, and her gaze is vacant as she stares at the cloth atop the counter.

Whatever her secret, it doesn’t appear as far in the rearview as Theresa would make out.

The woman is haunted by shadows she can’t outrun.

Question is, what does the darkness hide?

FIVE

VANESSA

“Likely story, buddy.”

Murphy circles my legs as I make my way in the door, weaving dangerously close to having his tail stood on.

Or me on the floor with a broken neck.

“Out of the way.”

As appealing as the break from reality sounds, I’ve got shit to do. Namely, figure out who this fucking lawyer is and how they found my address.

The address that I’ve been super careful to keep secret since I found the house.

The clock in the kitchen reads four-fifteen as I drop my shoulder bag on the counter and head for the fridge. I’d hoped a solid week of work would have let this stress ease—something to distract my brain. But all I’ve done is delay the inevitable.

And my nervous system knows.

Repeated panic attacks throughout the days have left me seriously fatigued, and constant nausea from said moments of existential dread means I ate sweet fuck all. Mama needs a snack. And she needs it quick.

I shove a limp celery bunch aside and tug out a slim container of salami sticks. Something sugary would probably be better for a quick fix, but I don’t think my fragile gut flora could handle the sweetness right now.

Murphy alights onto the counter, curling his whiskered lips back in a yowl.

I shove a stick in my mouth, bite off a section, and chew, maintaining eye contact with the con artist as I do.

“Not yours.” I wave the mutilated stick between us. “Mine.”

He launches to the floor, and sashays from the room to no doubt scratch the fuck out of my favorite shoes. Or shit in a corner. Anything to assert his dominance.

I pop the rest of the cured meat in my mouth and retrieve my phone from my bag. It’s a simple old-school brick with no browser capabilities or internet connectivity.

Call me paranoid, but things have happened in my life that have left me questioning the security of anything connected to the information superhighway. Risking it being howhefound me was not a chance I was willing to take. Although, given the letter I slide onto the counter, it seems too late for that.

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