Page 138 of Convict's Game
Staring hard, I worked out what I knew. He lived with his parents. He had a girlfriend and no job. One of the cars outside their luxury home was probably his.
The cars.
My mind leapt back to the night I was here with Arran and the blue BMW that had cut us up in town. His. Fucking. Car.
I lurched to a conclusion. “Fine words for a man who blew up a boat in the world’s biggest tantrum. What, did Mummy and Daddy cut your allowance?”
“TheEden? Why the fuck would I do that? It was worth a fortune. Maybe I’m just here to see if the old man lined his cabin in gold like his fucking coffin.” Mini Marchant-Smythe stepped up to me, inches shorter, and giving me a close-up of his mid-brown hair cut straight across his forehead. “And fuck you for that attitude. I owe you for knocking me out. I don’t give a crap if it was ten years ago.”
Ten years?
“What are you talking about?”
His features tightened. “Piss off. I don’t buy it that you don’t remember me. I split your lip.”
No memory served me, but I took a guess.
“You visited the Glass House for fights. So did a lot of people. I floored a whole lot of boys like you. Congrats on the lucky shot.”
Anger flickered in his eyes.
I’d pissed him off. Good. I wanted him rattled, because him being here was no coincidence. His family were among those shouting loudest about being cut off. He knew the area and had clearly hung out here when he was a teenager. Then he was back on the very night the boat blew up.
What else had he done?
I lifted my chin. “What’s your name?”
He didn’t answer. Only held his gaze on me then snuck a look at his phone.
I tried again. “You’re working for the company. Was that off the books? Carrying out dark deeds for old man Marchant?”
It wasn’t him I’d pictured in my memory of the trafficked woman, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Why else would he be here? Not just today but often.
Mini Marchant-Smythe curled his lip. “Work? This fucking family is a joke. Did you know my girlfriend’s mother is a police officer?”
I squinted, not following his train of thought. What difference did that make?
It was then I picked up the siren, wailing in the sea air and coming in fast.
He’d called the cops on me.
Shit, I was on probation. And trespassing. Arran might have paid off the police in Deadwater, but I had no idea if that applied here.
His mocking continued as I backed away. “She was so interested when I said your name. I remembered you as Convict, but Mila called you Roscoe. No confusing the identity of a man like you.”
I exited the yard, rounding the tall stone wall onto the road and the bridge over the water to the mainland. The police car screamed to a stop, blocking my ride, and an officer leapt out.
From her belt, she lifted her Taser.
For fuck’s sake. I couldn’t do this right now. I had to get back to Mila ahead of the meeting or she’d think I’d abandoned her. In a rush, all my mistakes fell as dominoes in my mind. The fact the police were interested in me. The way I moved like I was invincible. The way I treated my broken body without care.
I reached for my phone.
The cop yelled and ran at me.
The crackle of electricity filled the air, and I ducked to avoid it. But the prongs from the Taser missed their mark of my chest and instead struck my temple. Right over the site of the brain injury that had stolen my thoughts.
I dropped to the ground and my world turned black.
