Page 16 of The Players

If the killer took it after he’d shot both my parents, and the Hills had the photo, that pointed to one of them, didn’t it? Hector had gotten a tip from overhearing a conversation his father was having that Richard Hill might have had something to do with it, but that was all we knew.

Why would the Hills want to kill my parents? What would their motive have been? Easton’s dad was a CIO, so busy running a huge tech company that he barely had time for his son, let alone a double murder.

Did that mean it had been Easton? Could I picture him shooting people in cold blood?

He had been the one to pull the hose from my coffin. He’d wanted me dead, and why? Because I’d stolen his precious tribe away from him? Or was he just a psychopath?

That seemed like the more realistic answer.

But the other night at his house, he’d seemed… detached, almost confused. It must’ve been a ploy, something to get me to agree to his new game so he could torture me. The mouse to his cat. He wanted to finish what he’d started.

And to tell his new minion to show me that photo in class like that… that was pure evil.

But also a little stupid.

And Easton Hill was not stupid.

Maybe Savannah had gone rogue. He’d told her to torture me, and she’d come up with the picture idea. That made the most sense. She was dumb as she was bitchy. What a perfect combo, the right recipe to join Easton’s new squad.

I shook my head and turned into my driveway. I’d barely noticed that I’d made it all the way home, driving on autopilot as my brain churned through these new events.

Quickly, I parked my car, shut it off, and took the porch steps two at a time. I was inside my house in a flash.

“Viv, you’re home.” Gram turned to gape at me from her place at the open oven. In one oven-mitted hand, she held a tray of cookies she’d been about to slide into the belly of the stove before I’d barreled into the house.

“Oh, sorry, Gram. I have a huge project to do tonight, and I wanted to get a jump on it. Didn’t mean to scare you. Are those sugar-free?” I pointed at the cookies, the mother in me coming forward. I couldn’t help it. I’d nearly lost her to a diabetic coma a month ago, and there was no way I was going through that again. She was all I had left in the world besides my friends and the boys. The sting of her near death had felt far too much like stumbling into my parents’ murder for my tastes. I wasn’t sure if my psyche could handle anything like that again.

Gram made a face. “These cookies are as sugar-free as I could get them without making cardboard. But don’t fuss. I’m checking my sugar. I’m taking my meds like a good little girl.” She rolled her eyes, and I marveled at our role reversal.

“Okay, okay. I just needed to check.” I walked over and gave her a one-armed hug before slipping past her and down the hall to my bedroom. “I’ll be busy for a while. Call me for dinner?”

“Sure, punkin. Don’t work too hard.”

I waved a hand at her before slipping around my bedroom door and tucking myself inside. With the door shut, I knelt and pulled the shoebox out from under my bed.

Then I held it in my hands and took a deep breath.

No one knew I had evidence from my parents’ murders in my room. No one had any idea that I’d slipped things out of the lawyers’ folders after we’d lost the right to a trial. Was it some kind of sick obsession? I didn’t know. I didn’t like looking at any of the things in this box. Frankly, it made me sick to think of it hiding under my bed, but I felt that someone had to keep ahold of the information. If I didn’t, who would?

No one had suspected, and the lawyers never called to ask where their files were so I figured I’d been right to slip them in my purse when they’d left me alone in that office to get more coffee. If they’d been concerned about my parents’ case since then, they’d have called my grandmother to ask where their files had gone. No one had ever called.

But my grandmother couldn’t know I had this box. She’d likely make me give it to her or burn it. She didn’t like to think about how my parents had been killed. She barely spoke about them as it was. She’d hate the fact that I’d kept this stuff. So, I hunkered on the floor between the bed and the wall to give myself some cover if she came in. Then I pulled out my cell phone, turned on the flashlight, and took the lid off the box.

I regretted it instantly.

The pieces of paper, photos, and even scraps of fabric hit me like a punch in the face. It was everything I’d collected from my parents’ double homicide. Seeing it felt like taking those last steps into the cold basement and seeing the blood.

My head began to swim. My heart pounded. A copper taste filled my mouth.

No. No, no, no.

I put the lid back on the box and inhaled through my nose until the feeling passed.

Damn it. Why was I so weak? Why couldn’t I get through this without fainting, throwing up, or having a nervous breakdown?

I knew why. It was fucking terrifying. If I couldn’t get over it, how could I ever expect to find the real killer?

With trembling hands, I slid the box back under my bed. Maybe another time.

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