Page 4 of Halfway to Hell
“Okay,” she breathed. “Stay at the shelter tonight. Do you have enough money to call me back?”
“Yes.”
Monday could hear it —the fear wound tight around every syllable her sister spoke. Pain, too. Exhaustion. It tore her apart.
“All right. I’m going to call a friend. His name is Texas. He’s solid. I trust him with my life, and you can, too. He’ll come find you.”
She paused, throat tight.
“I love you, Sunday. Stay put until he gets there.”
“I love you, too,” Sunday’s voice broke on the words. She glanced around, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, strangers mumbled in their sleep, the distant clatter of someone moving around in the communal bathroom.
If Sunday had anyone else in her life, anyone at all, she wouldn’t have made the call. But she didn’t. Only Monday.
“Sunday,” Monday said, phone pressed tight to her ear. “Can you get to a hotel or motel? Somewhere I can book a room with my card over the phone?”
Sunday hesitated, eyes scanning the unfamiliar shelter walls. “Maybe,” she said. “But not many places let someone else pay over the phone. Not from what I’ve seen.”
“Try tomorrow. Please.” Monday could feel her nerves fraying. “Until then, stay hidden.”
She prayed Vicious’s contact would answer, that the man he swore could help would get to Sunday before Dalton did.
“I’ll call in the morning,” Sunday said quietly. Then the line went dead.
She slipped the phone back on the holder and looked around the dim, crowded space. Her gut told her not to stay the night. Sunday didn’t trust anyone—not with the kind of people Dalton sent after her. She needed to disappear.
The bar buzzed with the usual end-of-night cleanup—chairs scraping across the floor, glasses clinking in the sink, the low hum of tired voices. Monday moved through it like a ghost, heart still thudding from the call.
Everyone was busy. No one noticed her slip into the office and quietly close the door.
She pulled out her phone, staring down at the number she’d saved the day before. She’d punched it in once before; but hadn’t made the call. Back then, she had nothing to say—no location, no proof Sunday had even made it out of Sudbury.
Now she did. Her thumb hovered over the dial icon. The hesitation made her feel like shit.
She should’ve called sooner. She should’ve done more. But sometimes, digging into the past felt like ripping open wounds she wasn’t ready to bleed from again. Still, Sunday was her sister. And now that she knew where she was—heard her voice—there were no more excuses.
Monday hit the call button and pressed the phone to her ear, praying Texas would pick up. She needed him to help her.
Texas stretched out on the queen-sized antique bed, staring at the ceiling. The floral comforter and ruffled bed skirt were a hell of a contrast to the .45 he’d dropped on the nightstand. The gas fireplace flickered in the corner. Nice touch. Too bad the water pressure in the shower sucked worse than his last blind date.
Maybe later he’d fill up the oversized garden tub and take a damn swim, just to say he did.
Through the thin walls and narrow staircase, he could hear guests coming and going downstairs. Footsteps on hardwood. Luggage wheels bumping over rugs. A door slammed. Someone laughed too loud.
The old place had charm, sure, but it wasn’t built for privacy. He didn’t mind. Peace was peace, even if it came wrapped in lace curtains and flower-scented hand soap.
He was in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, on business, talking with local orchard owners and checking out the market for imported apples from Canada. Nothing urgent, just part of the seasonal grind. His family owned a working orchard and cider mill in the North Country, tucked in the hills above Montreal. Between the restaurant, the gift shop, and the fall tourist crowd, the place stayed busy enough to justify the long hours.
Still, the road wore on a man.
Dropping his arm across his eyes, Texas let the weight of the day pull him down. He'd earned a nap. The mattress wasn’t half bad, and the fire made the room feel like a postcard. He let the muffled sounds of the inn lull him—footsteps creaking on the stairs, a door closing, wind brushing against the windowpanes.
The early spring weather had made for a damn good day on his sled, and Texas had every intention of squeezing in one more ride before tracking down a place for dinner. The town of New London surprised him. For a place so small, it had a hell of a variety when it came to restaurants. He’d spent the afternoon wandering the streets, checking out the shops and soaking in the odd charm of it all.
When folks told him the town wasunique, they hadn’t done it justice.
Where else could you find a fetish shop with mannequins decked out in full bondage gear right next to a renovated church turned white-linen restaurant that served Cajun food and pumped live jazz through vintage speakers? It was strange, sure—but in the kind of way that made you want to stick around and see what else the place had up its sleeve.
