Page 100 of The Hunted
“You think what?” Bates nudged his shoulder.
Why did everyone have to touch him? He shrugged. “I don’t know. You ever get tired of it all? We’ve seen some things and therapy can only help so much. This stuff can harden the softest of people.”
“How about you take the rest of the day and come back when you’ve rested?” Bates insisted. “You’ve been working nonstop. I don’t think you’ve ever taken a vacation.”
Not unless he had to.
“Martin is out following a lead with Mack. I’m sure those two can handle it. If we need you, we’ll call you.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Go get some rest.”
He watched her walk away shaking his head. “I wonder if Martin is actually on a lead or a woman,” he grumbled, placing the box on his desk.
He grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced into the box. He wasn’t worried about the Reaper sending him anything as entertaining as a body part. They wouldn’t do that twice.
He moved the tissue paper to the side to see a bag of sunflower seeds and a note addressed to him. To his real name: Saint Alonso.
His hand shook when he opened the envelope. The rule-lined paper was purple, and his fingers traced the scrawl of neat handwriting as he read.
Dear Saint,
Do you remember when you used that name? I know you said you had no memory, but how could you not want to know your past? How could you not feel me in your marrow? We’ve been through a lot, you and me. I’ll tell you all the sordid details I had to live with before you, during you, and after you if you want. I promise I can tell a riveting tale.
While you were off living a cushy life, I found myself back in the hands of people who liked tormenting lost little girls. Because, and this is a direct quote, “no one cares about little girls when it counts. There are endless amounts of you that no one pays attention when one goes missing.”
Some shit, right?
Don’t worry, I won’t give you my rage on paper. I think that should be saved for in person.
Can you believe a lucky hit dislodge my contacts? All my carefully laid plans went poof in a matter of seconds.
I guess it doesn’t matter. It just sped up the inevitable.
Don’t look for me. I know you’re sulking and licking wounds you think you don’t deserve, but you won’t find me. I’ll come to you when I’m ready.
Sincerely,
Shea.
Santino crumbled the paper in his hand. He wasn’t going to sit idle and wait for her to come get him. He wanted the upper hand this time. To handle her how he saw fit. He rubbed at the center of his chest, unsure why he kept feeling a sharp pain there when he thought about her.
You know why.She means something to you.
He ignored the taunt. She didn’t mean anything to him now. Not after this. He would do what he should have done when he first met her.
But will you be able to?
He pitched forward, trying to ease the sharp pain digging into his chest. He slowed his breathing down, hoping that would help, when he heard his phone chime. Desperate for a distraction, he grabbed it, though he wasn’t sure who would be hitting him up now. Martin wouldn’t text him, and Silva knew better. If she wanted to stay hidden, she wouldn’t reach out in a way that was traceable.
“What the….” He hit the notification and chuckled. It was the security at his cabin. Someone just waltzed in through the back door.
“Looks like I’m going hunting.” It was time to put the Reaper down, even if his chest caved in from the pain of it.
Twigs snapped under Amra’s boots. Every step she took seemed to announce her presence. She didn’t understand how Santino had trapezed through this forestation without making a single sound. He had blended in with his surroundings so well she completely stopped following him for fear of being caught. She didn’t know her way around the woods and wouldn’t make that mistake of getting caught out here alone with him. Her plan was to survive long enough she got to see him locked up.
“That’s why you waited until you knew he was in the office to sneak back out here,” she whispered.
He’d been holed in at his desk looking grumpy. Whatever had transpired between him and Silva had bled into their time going over the evidence and notes they had on Sarah Brown’s body. His eyebrows were permanently pitched low, there was a scowl on his face, and if anyone so much as asked him something, let alone breathed in his direction, he snapped at them.
He was no longer the polite and put-together person everyone swore he was. His real personality was seeping through his cracks, his hold on the mask he wore slipping with each twitch of his jaw and clench of his hands.
