Page 80 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“How did they survive this?” Theo asks.

He leans down on the driver’s side, peering in. It’s streaked with blood. Most of the door is gone, cut away by the rescue team.

“The car was upside down,” Eli informs us, reading from his phone.

There was a little article about it in the paper, but I wasn’t able to read it. Couldn’t stomach the thought. And now I’m staring at the actual evidence, and I think I might puke.

“Margo was in the passenger seat,” he continues. “And she wasn’t found at the crash. When her foster mother and case worker couldn’t locate her, she was reported missing.”

I shake my head. “Matt dragged her out and left Robert behind.”

I like the Jenkinses. They’re good for Margo. Good people in general.

And someone tried to—

“Don’t spiral,” Liam says behind me.

I find him watching me instead of the totaled cars.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he argues. “Going down the wormhole. Going to let the anger take over. Well, just—don’t.”

I grunt and try to listen to him for once. I take a deep breath, then another.

“Margo and Robert both survived this,” he continues. “Got it?”

“I fucking got it,” I growl.

I leave Robert’s car behind—I can’t look at it anymore—and head toward the other vehicle. It’s a maroon SUV better suited for moms and too many kids. It faired a lot better.

“Check this out,” Liam says, pointing to a few marks on the front of the SUV. “Was there a brush guard on it or something?”

There’s nothing on there now… and it would explain why this car is in much better shape than Robert’s. My anger flares, white-hot, but I push it down. There will be a time to deal with Matt—and whoever was giving Matt orders.

I raise my eyebrow. “That isn’t cheap. And not typically a rental.”

“I doubt it was a rental.” Liam circles it. His dad has always been into cars. I heard he once thought about opening his own shop. The family restored a few cars and sold them to folks in Rose Hill with too much money to burn, and I know for a fact Liam was just as involved in the project as his dad and brother.

He opens the passenger door and leans in, yanking off his gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the registration,” he says. The jackass he’d normally tack onto the end of such a statement is implied this time.

I roll my eyes.

He pulls out a piece of paper, grinning. “Not the Powerball, but no small potatoes, either.”

“Sorry, is that a lottery analogy?”

“Shut up.” He scans the paper, then tosses it across the driver’s side to me.

I open it slowly. It’s a receipt for an oil change, with the owner’s name printed neatly in the upper corner.

Lead stones drop into my stomach.

“Do you know who it is?” Liam asks. There must be something alarming in my expression, because he whistles for the other guys and comes around the vehicle.

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