Page 27 of Can't Stop
“Promise me, bones, or we’ll stand right here until these assholes wake up at the crack of dawn.”
Her shoulders droop, and her raised chin finally lowers a few inches. “Fine. I promise I’ll head for the truck if shit goes south.”
“Good girl.” I rub her shoulders and press my forehead to hers. “You search the left side of the downstairs, and as soon as you’re finished, meet me by the back door. Whoever finds Van Gogh first should go straight there. If I don’t show up by sunrise, you know what to do.”
She nods, gives me a quick peck on the mouth, then disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone on the landing.
Why do I get the sneaking suspicion she’s already found a loophole?
Chapter Fifteen
Rayna
Dalton has lost his mind if he thinks I’ll abandon him. If I’m willing to go through all this trouble for a fucking taxidermy squirrel, he must realize the lengths I’ll go to in order to keep him in my life. There is only one way Dalton can rid himself of me, and that’s by securing himself passage behind the pearly gates. Fat chance of that happening. No, we’ll both be firmly seated on the train to hell, side by side. I’ll make sure of that.
The stairs creak as Dalton descends, and my spine ratchets straighter with each wooden groan. Sweat slicks my palms. And my forehead. Hell, sweat slicks everything on my body, if I’m being real. I’m a nervous wreck as I wrap my hand around the banister and start down the stairs.
Yet I’ve never felt more alive.
“Missed my calling as a burglar,” I whisper as Dalton and I part ways.
I meander into a dark office. Strands of moonlight cut through the blinds and gouge bright gashes into a desk against the far wall. Ledgers pile high on its surface. A computer from the nineties sits amid the stacks of papers and bindings, its fat black face staring blankly up at me as it drowns forgotten. I run my finger through a thick blanket of dust on the tufted armchair in front of the desk. No one has been in this room for ages.
Stepping closer to the desk, I spy a manilla folder that looks a bit fresher than the rest. I pluck it up, unable to contain my curiosity, and flip to the first page. It’s a medical record for someone named Jebediah Hollows.
As I read the doctors’ and nurses’ scrawled notes, a picture begins to form. One of a desperate family who was unable to accept a pretty horrible diagnosis. The medical staff repeatedly mentions the way the mother and father lose their grip on reality. Superstitions morphed into dangerous beliefs, and by the time Jebediah succumbed to his disease—some sort of autoimmune issue, though it’s wholly unclear in the notes—the family was convinced he was merely hibernating until a cure could be provided.
I close the manilla folder and place it back on the desk. A lump has formed in my gut, and I can’t help but feel a little compassion for the family. Not enough compassion to want to help them, but enough to feel bad for letting Dalton come in the father’s hand.
Then again . . . those assholes took my squirrel. Fuck them.
I pull out the drawers and sift through their contents, but Van Gogh isn’t within the dusty shadows. The cabinet standing against the wall receives brief consideration before I shake my head and leave the room. Only ghosts of a family reside in there.
As I step into the hallway once more, the distant sound of toppling cloth reaches my ears, followed by a suppressed grunt. My initial urge is to go to Dalton and see what sort of mess he’s gotten into, but my forward momentum halts the moment I take the first step. Perched on the mantel above the fireplace, surrounded by family pictures and a few unlit tea lights, stands Van Gogh.
Hurrying to him on silent feet, I nearly trip over the rug sprawled across the floor. I steady myself on the couch and continue toward my most beloved possession. The moment my fingers graze his patchy fur, I pull him into me and breathe in his ancient, greasy perfume. I imagine this is what a mother must feel like when she holds her baby, breathing in that infant smell. A human child could never elicit this emotion from me, but this taxidermy squirrel holds the keys to my heart. Well, some of them. The rest are held firmly within the hands of?—
“Dalton,” I breathe as I look up and register him standing in an open doorway.
He doesn’t look at me. In fact, his back faces me as he steps out of the room. His hands are raised as he backpedals, one slow step at a time, into the living area. I slip into an alcove beside the fireplace and hunker down in the shadows to bear witness to whatever is happening.
“Where’s your woman?” a male voice says, and I recognize it as Samuel’s voice before he steps fully into the moonlight blaring through the window. “We need her. She’s the only chance my brother has.”
I wince, because the only chance his brother had was a miracle, and that ship sailed about three years ago. The medical files ended with his death, which this family still hasn’t accepted.
Dalton shakes his head and laughs. “Rayna is miles from here by now. I’m merely a decoy, sent to keep you assholes busy so that she could escape.”
“Why wouldn’t the two of you just escape together?”
“Well . . . I mean . . .”
I roll my eyes. Dalton is handsome, strong, and incredibly good in bed, but he’s not the brains of our duo, that’s for sure.
Samuel pushes forward, and that’s when I spot the shotgun aimed at Dalton’s chest. Perhaps I’ve judged him a bit harshly. I’m not so sure I’d be thinking clearly with a double barrel leveled on me, either.
“Just tell us where she is, and I’ll make this easy on you. I promise,” Samuel says, and the sincerity in his voice is almost believable. “You can be the last sacrifice. Give us the girl, and we’ll take very good care of her.”
Why isn’t Dalton ripping off his clothes? I think to myself, but then I realize he never had the chance. Samuel must have gotten the drop on him in the room, preventing him from whipping out his dick.
