Page 78 of Flame
“You think you’re so damn smart, huh?” he hisses through his teeth. “You tell me something. Where is the fucking hair clip? Where did you put it?”
I keep my hands in view, neither confirming nor denying that I have it. “Did you hide it in my apartment on purpose?”
“Don’t play with me!” He slams his fist over the steering wheel so hard the horn sounds. Wild-eyed, he scans the road, his knuckles protruding from how tight his grip becomes. “Where is it?”
“You recognized her at the restaurant, didn’t you?” I say, recalling that night and how angry he’d been. I’d assumed that I was the source of that rage, but someone else would pay the price in reality—just like with Lexi.
And me. My face still smarts if I focus on it. Absently, I trace the bottom of my lip, observing him from the corner of my eye. His expression isn’t far from the fearsome snarl he wore the night he attacked me, and a grim sense of recognition strengthens my resolve.
“Did you follow her when I left? Is that when you killed her—”
“You don’t have any fucking idea of what you’ve gotten into. Do you? No fucking idea. Now I have to fix it just to make sure you don’t wind up—” He stiffens, and an emotion flits across his face that I recognize instantly. Fear.
A buzzing noise gives me a clue as to why. A ringtone?
“Shit.” He fumbles through his pocket, withdrawing a cell phone. “Dewitt. Are you following me?” Whoever he’s speaking to says something that makes him glance over his shoulder. “Where do you need me to go?”
He hangs up, shoving the phone into his pocket, and I sense the mood shift as drastically as if the temperature dropped several degrees. Branden, without his cocky swagger, is a stranger to me. He’s shades paler, practically glowing in the dark. A sheen of sweat glints off his brow, and I know the alcohol stench isn’t a coincidence.
“Who was that? Where are we going?” I demand as he swerves around a corner. “Tell me!”
“Shut up,” he hisses. “Just shut up! You have no idea what kind of shit I’m in. No clue!”
“So tell me,” I say, scrambling for my seatbelt as the van picks up speed. “Are you working for Lee Wei-Shen? Is that why you hid Faith’s hair clip in my things.”
He whips around to face me, so suddenly, the entire van jolts with the movement. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Did you kill Faith?”
Shaking his head, he looks to the windshield. “You think you know everything, huh? Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you? The shit I’ve had to do to protect you? But it’s too late now—” He releases a harsh bark of laughter that chills me to the core. “He won’t let you off anymore.”
“He?”
“I tried to warn you, but you couldn’t fucking listen! You had to poke your damn nose into everything, didn’t you?” He sounds hysterical, and I can’t ignore a growing sense of alarm that has me digging my nails into my palms.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer, still laughing maniacally, seemingly too distracted to even keep his eyes on the road. We barrel through an intersection, missing any oncoming traffic by a miracle. Logic warns me to shut up, save the questioning for when our lives literally aren’t on the line. But fear and curiosity override anything else. “How long have you worked for him?” I ask, failing to keep my voice steady. It breaks, but I keep speaking, raising my voice until he flinches. “Why? Is that why you had to kill Faith? She found out about what really goes on at Gino’s club—”
“Shut up!” The car comes to a sudden stop, and I’m thrown forward so violently my seatbelt cinches my chest. Dazed, I brace my hands over the dashboard and look up. We’re in an unfamiliar part of town, far from any main street.
“Just shut up,” Branden warns as he climbs out, circling to my end. He grabs my wrist, yanking me from my seat. “I’m warning you, Hannah. This isn’t a fucking game. Now, where is the fucking hair clip?” he demands. “Give it to me!”
“I don’t have it,” I insist.
“Oh, really?” He grabs my bag, wrenching it from my grasp. He rummages through it and tosses it aside. “No!” He warns the second I take a step toward it. “Come on.”
His nails rip into my shoulder as he shoves me forward, toward a narrow alley that cuts between two nearby buildings. Dark windows and abundant graffiti allude to them being abandoned, and my breaths quicken, my throat tight.
“Where are we?”
“Shut up,” Branden snarls, pushing me forward. Eventually, we reach a battered door leading to one of the buildings. It’s dank inside, the air so thick I can taste it. Coopery, like metal. Rust. Wet.
My steps falter, but Branden shoves me further down what appears to be a narrow hall. The pitch darkness is broken only by a faint glow emanating from a doorway up ahead. When we reach it, Branden forces me inside—a wide space littered with wooden crates. A row of large, dusty windows allows some of the outside light in, but it’s barely enough to make out Branden’s grim frown.
“Just stay here,” he says, raking his hands through his hair. “Fuck! Let me handle this.”
“Handle what?” I ask. “What’s going on, Bran? Where are we?”
