Page 3 of Halfway to Hell
Monday stepped out from behind the bar and made her way over, sliding into the seat across from him.
In ten minutes flat, she laid it all out—every detail she had. From the phone call to Sunday’s ex to the dread twisting in her gut.
“I need someone to find my sister,” she said quietly. “And bring her back here.”
Vicious leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. Then he reached into his wallet. There was one brother who came to mind. Texas. He had the right skill set—tracker, fighter, stone-cold when necessary. If anyone could find Sunday and make sure Dalton got what was coming to him, it was Texas.
Vicious slid a card across the table.
“Call this man. He’s a brother. Tell him I sent you.”
Monday reached for the card, but Vicious placed his large hand gently over hers before she could pull away.
“He’ll take care of everything.”
She nodded, throat tight, and watched as Vicious stood and turned for the door.
“I don’t have a lot of money,” she said, almost apologetically.
Vicious met her eyes. Those stormy gray ones held too much worry for one night.
“Family doesn’t pay,” he said. “And don’t mistake it, Monday—youarefamily. We take care of our own.”
Monday watched him walk away, her fingers brushing the business card left on the table. She picked it up, pulled out her phone, and dialed the number. But before the call even rang, she hung up.
What could she say? She didn’t have any leads. Didn’t even know where Sunday was.
She slid the card into her back pocket, resolve settling like a slow burn. She’d make the call when she had something to go on—something real to tell Texas.
Chapter One
The lights remaineddim as the final customer toddled out of the bar, leaving Monday with the sobering task of cleaning up. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and spilled liquor—one of the many downsides of bartending she could never get used to.
She was dragging a mop toward the back when the phone rang.
“Laced.”
“Monday.”
The voice on the other end made her freeze. Tears welled in her eyes at the sound of her sister. No matter how long they’d been estranged, part of her had never stopped hoping they’d speak again. “Where are you?”
The past twenty-four hours had been hell—hoping—praying, Sunday would call her.
“I’m at a shelter,” Sunday said quietly. “But I can’t stay long.”
Monday pictured her—small, tired, surrounded by strangers in a too-bright room with nowhere else to go. She could hear voicesin the background, the shuffle of footsteps, the hum of hard lives lived out in public.
“They make everyone leave in the morning after breakfast,” Sunday added, glancing around the room at the cots filled with sleeping bodies. Most of them were addicts. Lost souls. Survivors.
“I’ve been waiting for this call,” Monday whispered. “But where, Sunday? Where are you?”
“I’m still in Sudbury.”
“Sunday, listen to me,” Monday said, forcing calm into her voice. “You need to get to a bus station so I can buy you a ticket. I’ll get you home.”
“That’s not safe,” Sunday said, her voice trembling. “Dalton and his friends are probably looking for me. If I go to a bus station, they’ll find me.”
Monday pressed a hand to her forehead, heart pounding. She didn’t own a car—working out of town meant she was always borrowing or renting. The earliest she could get a vehicle would be in the morning, once the rental places opened. That was hours away.
