Page 123 of The Beautiful Dead

Ghost tensed.

And I… felt nothing.

Not anger. Not rage. Not fear. Just cold, unyielding clarity. “Well.” I took another drag. “That’s unfortunate for you.”

Salvatore took a step closer. “I need your help.”

Something ugly curled in my chest, something dark and hollow and hungry. I tilted my head, flicking the ashes from my cigarette onto the floor.

“And why the fuck,” I murmured, voice dipping lower, silkier, deadlier, “would I ever help you?”

Salvatore broke. Not all at once, but in increments. His shoulders sagged a fraction. His lips parted. His face was haunted, haggard, desperate. “You’re the only one who can find him.”

I let the silence stretch.

Then, I laughed. Low. Hollow. Cruel.

“Interesting,” I mused, tapping a finger to my chin. “You never seemed to care when it was me.”

A flicker of something passed over his face. Shame. Guilt. Or maybe I was giving him too much credit.

“I’ll find him.” My voice was cold. Absolute. Laced with the bite of a deal with the devil.

Salvatore’s breath wooshed in relief—but it was premature. I stepped forward, crowding into his space, my voice dropping to a murmur.

“But you’re going to tell me the whole fucking truth.”

Salvatore’s brows furrowed. “What?”

I smiled. It wasn’t kind.

“If you want me to find your son, then you’re going to tell me everything.” My fingers ghosted over his collar, fisting the fabric tight. “About my mother.”

Salvatore froze. And for the first time, I saw it.

Fear.

Not of me. Not of what I could do. But of what I might uncover.

My blood sang.

I pressed closer, so close he could feel my breath against his cheek. “Do we have a deal?”

Salvatore’s jaw locked.

One second. Two. Three.

Then, slowly—with the weight of a man making a deal with the fucking abyss?—

He nodded.

Hollow Pines National Parksurrounded the city on three sides. It was as beautiful as it was deadly. And had claimed its fair share of victims over the years, not that anyone really knew the number of skeletons buried in shallow graves that were hidden in its depths.

The cottage at the edge of Brielle’s land was the perfect place for Federico to use. Only a handful of people knew of its existence; even fewer had ever seen it or knew where it was.

The intel we’d pried out of Federico’s one remaining confidant—before Remi carved him into pieces—had led us here. The cottage just beyond the grounds of the care home wasn’t on any blueprints, tucked away behind gnarled trees and overgrown brush like it had been swallowed whole by time.

We slipped through the rusted gates at the forest side entrance, the wind howling through the skeletal branches. The exterior of the old cottage had deteriorated since the last timewe were there. Its windows shattered, its walls sagging. A mausoleum to forgotten souls.

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