Page 264 of The Devil's Thorn
He was too late. They all were.
I switched the phone off completely and tossed it onto the passenger seat like I wanted it as far away from me as possible.
Then I parked—right in front of Rafael’s garage—and threw the door open. The air outside was cool, but I barely felt it. Not over the fire burning beneath my skin.
I stalked toward the gate. One of the guards stepped out, hand raised like I was some visitor in need of instruction.
“Ma’am, I need to ask?—”
I pulled the gun out before he even finished the sentence.
He froze.
I didn’t aim it. Didn’t have to. I held it steady, my hand firm, gaze unwavering.
“Move. Now.”
He did. Smart.
I didn’t stop to think what would’ve happened if he hadn’t.
I stormed through the gate, heart pounding with every step, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots sounding like thunder in my ears. The house rose in front of me—sharp, cold, familiar. Once a place that held heat and breath and memory.
Now?
Just a cage of lies.
The doors weren’t locked. I threw them open and stepped inside, every light off, shadows sprawling across marble like secrets.
“Rafael!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the silence. “Where the hell are you?!”
Nothing. Only stillness. The kind that wraps around you like a warning.
I stalked through the foyer, down the hall, past the kitchen and the lounge—nothing. Empty. The anger kept me warm. Kept me focused. Until I reached his office.
I shoved the door open. Dark. But I didn’t hesitate. I flipped the light on and crossed the room in seconds, eyes scanning every surface. Empty whiskey glass. Closed laptop. A faint traceof his scent still in the air—rich, dark, intoxicating. It only made me angrier.
I moved behind the desk and started opening drawers. One by one. Rummaging through files, letters, records. Nothing labeled. Everything tucked away too neatly.
“Come on…” I muttered, yanking the next one open harder than I needed to. I was done being passive. Done waiting for truth to be handed to me like I hadn’t already lost enough.
He didn’t want to talk? Fine. Then I’d tear the answers out of whatever he left behind.
I yanked open another drawer. Files. Notes. Nothing that mattered. The next—just blank envelopes, stationary, some stray bullets tossed in beside a leather-bound journal with no writing inside. All of it neat. Meticulous. Just like him.
Another drawer. Empty except for a watch and a folded map with red lines that made no sense. I grabbed the folders, flipped them open one by one, scanned every page for a name, a date,anything. But it was all meaningless. Transactions. Business contacts. Clean and sterile and utterly useless to me.
I slammed the last one shut and stood there for a second, chest rising and falling too fast. My hand twitched around the edge of the desk, nails digging into the wood. My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it.
“Say something,” I whispered to the empty room. “Fuckingsay something.”
The silence answered me back. So I reached for the glass on his desk—the one he always poured from late at night, like it was a ritual. Still a splash of whiskey at the bottom. I stared at it. Then Ihurledit across the room.
The sound of it shattering against the wall cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Pieces of glass scattered across the floor, the liquid dripping down the paint like blood.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Until I looked back at the desk. And saw it. A thin folder. Not tucked in a drawer. Just lying flat near the edge. Hidden by shadows until now.
