Page 44 of Blindside Sinner

22

SLOAN

I manage to survive the rest of the three-game road stretch without killing Beck or even speaking to him beyond the bare necessities. I make doubly sure to shoot all unknowncalls straight to voicemail.

When we get home, I march straight to the apartment, ignoring the laughter coming from behind me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the anger on my face.

I take the mail from the box out front and sort it into his and mine. I don’t get much. Just the usual junk and offers for payday loans and credit cards. I continue flipping through and pulling mine from the pile as I walk toward the house, and that’s when I see it.

A plain white envelope. No return address. Awkward handwriting, some letters big, some small.

“Fuck.”

I’ve been found. Again.

On one hand, this is the first one. I was so sure I’d outsmarted them.

On the other hand, they’ve found me, so it doesn’t matter how smart I am. They’ve got me now.

I take Beck’s mail into the house and drop it on the kitchen counter, casual, nonchalant, just in case anyone is watching, although the door to Beck’s wing is firmly closed and none of the staff is around.

I toss the junk in the trash and keep the white envelope tucked under my elbow as I retreat to my own quarters. Feeling safe here was nice while it lasted. From now on, though, I’ll be vigilant. I’ll watch behind me. Make sure every window is locked, every alarm is set, every possible precaution is taken.

They found me, yeah.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll go without a fight.

23

BECK

She starts off nice most mornings, albeit more than a little bit sarcastic.

Wakey, wakey, eggs and bake-y.

Out of bed, sleepyhead.

When that inevitably fails, she moves onto calling me stubborn, or an asshole, or a stubborn asshole. I’d make fun of her obvious fixation on my ass, but my comebacks are usually a little slow at six in the morning.

But at least she isn’t using the spray bottle to douse me anymore. And she’s a semi-good driver—for a chick, at least—so I don’t mind the rides to the rink for practices.

That doesn’t mean I like having her around, though. She’s still a pain in the ass. Won’t let me go out without her, so I quit going out. All Sloan and no play makes Beck a cranky fucker.

And today, the crank is at maximum.

Dix stares at me with one eyebrow arched. He’s got a bucket of pucks at his feet. “Shootout?”

I’d be charmed if I didn’t know he had an ulterior motive. Dix doesn’t ask to stay after practice and shoot around unless he wants to bet. I haven’t taken him up on it in a while. Not since Sister Sloan, the no-drinking, no-fucking, no-fun hall monitor came on the scene and decreed all forms of entertainment out of bounds.

I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a text fromTHE WITCHsitting unread on my home screen.I’m in the car outside. Hurry up.

Smirking, I toss it on top of my bag in the bench area and give Dixon a thumbs up. “Hope you brought a lotta cash, buddy. Because I’m ‘bout to clean you out. Line ‘em up.”

Grinning right back, Dixon kicks the bucket of pucks and they all go rolling around the ice around us.

“Me first.” He shuffles a puck into place, slides one hand low on the stick for power, and keeps the other high for balance. “Glove side, up top,” he announces. Then he pulls the trigger.

I watch the puck slice through the air. Then—DING.It rings off the post. He missed.

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