Page 150 of Unholy Obsession

He nods, then studies me long and hard. “If I do get out of here…” He hesitates, uncomfortable. “They have halfway houses for fuckers like me, but it’s better if family gives you a place to land. The parole officers prefer that kind of shit.”

I nod. “From everything I’ve seen of Caleb, I think he’d be more than happy to accommodate.”

“Well, since I still own the club, I’d fuckin’ think so.”

I blink. “Wait—you own the club?”

He nods. “Half, anyway. Caleb inherited the other half when his mama passed. Whole thing was a clusterfuck.”

Considering he’s in prison orange, across an impenetrable barrier of glass, I’d say whatever happened back then was.

The guard calls his name, and he stands.

But I say quickly into the receiver, “Silas.”

He pulls the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll do my best to find your daughter. And you’re going to get out of here.” I meet his gaze. “I’ll come back and visit you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t let any emotion show before he hangs up the phone.

FIFTY-FIVE

MOIRA

The phone ringson the other end as I hold the old-school handle of the receiver up to my ear. Like they have in movies. A strange, almost haunting sound echoes in my ear. I never call people. I text. But here I am, swallowing around the desert-dry ache in my throat, listening to that dull, repetitive tone.

Waiting.

The Travis County Jail is too bright. Fluorescent lights buzz above me, flickering faintly, casting the gray walls in a sickly, bluish hue. The linoleum floor beneath my pinched toes is sticky despite the overpowering scent of industrial cleaner that clings to every inch of this place. A bulletin board to my left is crammed with outdated flyers—bail bond advertisements, victim advocacy pamphlets, something about “finding Jesus.”

The acrid scent of stale sweat and regret lingers in the air, thick as the exhaustion that presses into my bones.

I’m just about to give up when the line clicks.

“Hello?” Kira’s voice on the other end is groggy. Confused.

I blink, my brain lagging behind my body like it’s buffering.

“Moira,” I croak, then clear my throat. Try again. “It’s Moira.”

Silence. Then?—

“Jesus. Moira? Bane was looking for you at the club a couple nights ago. Are you okay?”

My stomach clenches, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead into the cool metal receiver.Bane. He was looking for me.

But now?—

I swallow the ache clawing its way up my throat and try to ignore the glaring officer looming over me, arms crossed over his Kevlar vest. His badge catches the light, and he taps his watch impatiently, spinning his finger like I need to wrap this up.

“Not so much,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I had a bad night. Can you come pick me up?”

A pause. Then, softer, “Where are you?”

I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips to my temples. My head pounds.

“They impounded my car,” I admit. “Well, Dohmn’s car.”

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