Page 54 of Bound to a Killer
Twisting in my seat, I hold out my arms for Frankie to hand over the shoes. She shoots a quick glance to the back of Aria’s head before handing them over. “Come on, we’ll be in and out.”
Her chin lifts in a nod, but there’s a stiffness in her neck. Fuck, I hate that they have to go in. Reaching for the handle at my side, I step outside then turn to yank Aria’s door open. She flinches.
And fuck if that doesn’t gut me further.
Her eyes are rimmed red as she sets them across her chest, refusing to meet my gaze. I grip the shoes tight, steadying myself before reaching down to twist her legs aside so they’ll hang out the doorframe. Her lips part on a gasp.
Frankie quickly scrambles out on the other side, slamming her door behind her.
I put each shoe onto her feet then double tie the laces. “Stand up.” Her breathing picks up its pace, my eyes drawn to the rise and fall of her chest before locking back on her face. “Don’t make this hard. Those men inside? They’re reallybadmen, and if you don’t keep close to me, I won’t be able to help you. Okay?”
She swallows hard, a sheen glazing her eyes, not really focusing on me, but she nods.
“Good.”
I pat her knee to urge her up, but she flinches at my touch. Another jab to my chest, a subtle reminder that she’ll never find comfort in my touch again.
Frankie circles behind me, fingers tugging at the frayed ends of her denim jacket, twisting loose threads into a tight spiral while she leans on her toes.
Aria stands on unsteady legs. Both hands tremble at her sides, fists curling tight. “Why do we have to go inside?”
My knuckles twitch at the tremor in her voice. “Because they won’t work on our fake IDs without us present to confirm everything first. Remember that boss I told you about?”
Only her lashes flutter in response, but I know she remembers. My gaze lingers, memorizing every wrinkled expression up close.
“I’m trying to keep us safe from him right now. That’s why we need to go in.”
A long creak sounds from behind. It’s the door swinging on rusted hinges. My shoulders tense in response.
I whirl around, catching sight of one of the guys lingering in the doorway.
“Yo,” he shouts, tipping his head. “Wilson, right? It’s Jagger, from the money wire.”
It’ll be okay, I tell Aria with my eyes. The car locks pop up as I shift around again to walk over, Frankie faltering for a moment, then falling into place beside Aria as they trail behind me.
“Hey, sorry if we’re late. Long drive,” I say as I reach him.
He flashes me a wide smile, my eye catching on his snaggletooth. “Nah, you’re just in time. I cashed out the money you sent; it’s inside. Just got here not too long ago myself.”
We walk inside the building, our footsteps echoing in the large space filled with mostly empty cardboard boxes and plastic crates. The inside is dim. A good portion of the windows are boxed up, keeping the sunlight out, though enough slips in to light up the path.
The air feels heavy inside, musty and damp, like a decade of mold has built up in every corner of the walls and floors. It follows us deeper inside. I shift my attention behind me for a second to make sure Aria and Frankie don’t lag too far behind. Good, they’re close.
“You sure you’ll be able to get everything done by tomorrow? We’re in a bit of a rush,” I ask.
His inky eyes narrow as his lips curl upward, a stark contrast to the ghastly complexion that could rival Casper the ghost himself. “Yeah, for sure, my guy. That’s what you’re paying for, right? Premium price for premium speed.”
We approach his partner, hunched in the far corner on a dented barstool, licking his fingers as he sorts through a wad of cash on the desk in front of him. Dust mites dance around him as the bills shuffle from one hand to another.
“Yo, Dee,” Jagger calls out to him. The man lifts his head just long enough to nod at us, then drops it again, resuming his count as he stacks the bundles into a neat pile.
“This is Wilson, Scott’s friend I told you about. He’s here for the appointment.”
“Yeah, yeah, cool. Just get their headshots and signatures, and we’re straight,” he grumbles without looking up.
Jagger swivels on his heels. “Okay, let’s, uh, let’s have you all stand right here, behind the white wall.”
I turn to face the direction he’s pointing in. A large white paper backdrop, stained yellow and brown at the bottom, is propped by lightweight plastic poles. He whips out his phoneand holds it up, squinting through the screen as I step in front of the backdrop.
