Page 27 of The Prodigal

I have somewhere to be—somewhere I can’t put off any longer.

The brick building located in the heart of Atlanta is anything but fancy. Barred windows, no lights anywhere, and a scowling man leans against an overturned trash can to my left.

“You looking for Grant?” he asks in a dry, gritty voice.

“Yeah. Is he in?”

I can feel my blood pounding in my veins waiting for his answer. I shouldn’t be here. If any of the Potters found out that I came here, they’d lock me in one of their fancy basements and chain me to an antique chair.

This isn’t a place anyone should have to visit.

The man resting against the barrel, tips his chin. “Yeah, he’s in there.”

Perfect.

I couldn’t be more excited. “Thanks,” I say, taking the last steps to the door and pushing it open. Like the outside of the building, the room inside is just as dated.

“You Remington?” A middle-aged man comes out from another room, assessing me as he approaches. “You Maverick’s friend?”

I wouldn’t call Maverick and me friends, but whatever gets the job done. “Yeah.”

He nods. “You’re late, then.”

That I am, but it took a couple of cigarettes to calm me down enough to come here. Vance would love to know that little tidbit of information. I cower for no man; yet here I am, seconds away from having a full-blown panic attack with this one.

“Traffic,” I lie. “It won’t happen again.”

He starts walking down the hall and motions for me to follow. “Did Maverick explain to you how this works?”

I almost laugh. “He failed to mention it.”

Nor did I stick around for the details. Maverick was annoying enough just brokering this deal. I didn’t need an orientation.

“Figures,” he scoffs, “Maverick was a pain in my ass.”

I’m thinking he won’t enjoy me much more.

“You got the money?”

I nod, swallowing thickly. This is it. There’s no turning back—no running from the past. I’m out of options.

There is no asking for help.

Begging won’t save me, and neither will pleading.

My adoptive mother once told me that I’m the author of my own story, and even though I can’t change the backstory, I can change the ending.

But she was wrong.

Some stories aren’t meant to have happy endings.

Some are solely meant to deliverrevenge.

Congressman Albrecht took my past.

He took my future.

His life is now forfeit.

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