Page 75 of Dirty Love

The truth has never been so important to me.

“You’re angry with her.”

“She ruined everything.”

“She didn’t understand,” I say softly. Closer again.

He gives me a tortured look. “She told you about the bastard kid.”

“Your child.” Does he care?

A sneer. “Maybe.”

No, he doesn’t. Damn. I clench my fists at my side.

“We were never going to let her have the kid. If she didn’t have such a good voice, we would have just gotten rid of her completely.”

I was never directly involved in interrogation, but I know some of the basics. I know why people suddenly admit to crimes they haven’t been accused of, boasting even. Why they ramp up the bravado.

He’s getting to the end of his limit.

Well, motherfucker, so am I.

He sees the rage in my eyes. I know he does. He gets this smug fucking look on his face, like, ha, he’s hurt me.

He has no idea what pain is.

“Ten years too late,” he spits out. “But we’re going get the job down now—”

I explode into the air, spinning my body to the side in a three-hundred and sixty degree sideways turn that’s hard for him to track with the gun. As I come out of it, he’s directly in my path, and my boot connects with his face.

The gun goes off, and I hear the discharge, the zing of a bullet, a crack against concrete.

People are moving now.

I fall on top of him, my fists flying, and I smash him into the ground. Blood slicks my fists as bone and skin give way.

Hands grapple against my arms, trying to get a purchase on me.

“Not yet,” I growl. I said I’d kill him and I meant it.

“Carter, leave him.” Tag hauls me off Grant’s prone body and shoves me toward the door. “We need to get out of here.”

“No.” I shrug him off and twist, looking for the Glock he had. It had skittered across the floor, and I sweep it up, taking off at a sprint in the other direction.

Footsteps follow, but I don’t look back to see who’s with me.

There are two sets of steel doors between us and outside. They slam open, ka-bang, ka-bang, and I’m out into the night before either set slams shut again.

I spin in a circle, getting my bearings. We’re at the end of a row of warehouses, around back where the loading docks are.

It’s cold and dark and quiet.

Tick.

Where are you, Spencer Rook?

Tock.

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