Page 6 of Halfway to Hell
“Yes. You can reach me here or at Laced.”
So, she worked for the chapter. It explained why Vicious had given her his number.
“I’ll call when I get close to Sudbury. And hey, when you hear from Sunday, send me a text. I’ll stop and call you.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Texas.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even gotten to her.”
“Thank you for trying.”
“You’re welcome. I’d tell you not to worry?—”
Monday cut him off, voice firm but honest, “But I will.”
Hanging up, Texas stared into the cracked mirror, the distorted reflection staring back at him like a warning.
He slipped on the shoulder holster, then picked up the Sig and Glock, sliding each gun carefully into place. Buckling the rig snug around his midsection, he reached for the boot knives resting on the dresser. Sitting down, he pulled his pant legs up and slid his boots on, adjusting the hems for a clean fit.
Standing, he paced the room slowly, checking for anything he might’ve missed. Satisfied, he grabbed his worn leather jacket and slid it on, the familiar weight settling across his shoulders. At the foot bench, he snatched his small duffel bag, ready for the road.
Time was short for Monday’s sister. He swallowed the sour taste of cutting his trip short and pushed it down. Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.
Chapter Two
Sunday had wandered aimlesslyall morning, haunted by the fear of being found by Dalton or one of his men. Desperate for clothes and money, she made a quiet, almost unconscious, decision to return to the house she once shared with him. She waited until well after lunch and just before dinner to sneak back into the neighborhood.
Clad in light blue scrubs and hospital slippers, she looked painfully out of place, more like an ex-con than a battered woman. Each step she took echoed with the weight of the ordeal she’d endured, but she pushed forward, determined not to stop until she had what she came for.
She eased along the side of the garage, peering cautiously around the corner to make sure no one was at Dalton’s house. The driveway was empty—no car in sight—and the house was silent, no movement or sound from inside. After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed on, staying low as she followed the garage’s exterior wall.
When she reached the side door, she tested the doorknob—it was still unlocked.
Once inside, she froze for a second, listening to a dog barking somewhere across the street. Sunday forced herself to remember it was just a yapper, nothing more than noise meant to scare, and tried not to let it unravel her.
The place was cluttered with old furniture his mother had left behind when she passed—like a maze of discarded lives frozen in time. Careful not to disturb anything, Sunday lifted a faded blue tarp, revealing a small dorm fridge tucked away in the corner. She opened it quietly, grabbing a bottle of water and a Swiss cake.
The garage had been her refuge whenever Dalton and his friends were drinking or partying—a place that kept her safe, at least for a while. The food in the fridge was there because Dalton said she wasted money on things he never ate. He controlled everything.
Sunday’s mind drifted back to a different time. One before the bitterness, before the violence, when Dalton had been kind, sweet even. When he bought her flowers, gave her jewelry. That memory was like a fragile, fading light in the dark.
But everything changed months after he moved her from Montreal to Sudbury. That’s when he turned their home into a prison. He abused her, doped her, did whatever he wanted without consequence.
She’d lost count of the times she woke up with entire days missing, her body aching in places it shouldn’t, covered in bruises and angry red welts.
This last time, she had fought hard not to let him drug her, but it hadn’t helped. She had no idea what had happened after that. All she knew was waking up, wedged between two trees on an embankment, shrouded in darkness.
She clawed at the earth, scraping her hands raw as she struggled for leverage to keep from tumbling back into the ravine. When she finally reached the top, she collapsed onto the highway shoulder, barely able to stand. Cars roared past her, horns blaring. The urgent sounds pushed her to stay upright, to keep moving.
She would never be able to thank the couple who’d stopped and helped her that night.
Covering the fridge once more, Sunday checked the small half bath for her stash of toiletries. She found them, just as she’d hoped. Clutching the small bag, she returned to the main part of the garage. Somewhere beneath a pile of old books, she had tucked away a little cash. Now, she just needed to find it.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway sent a spike of panic through her. Dalton wasn’t supposed to be home for hours. Then, another car arrived. Doors opened and slammed shut and voices of men drifted through the air. Her heart hammered so loud it nearly drowned out their words.
Then she heard Dalton’s voice call out. She froze.
The men’s footsteps drew closer, voices low but urgent as they moved toward the house. Without a sound, Sunday slipped to the back of the garage, where an old armoire stood like a silent sentinel.
