into the back of a prototype vehicle, I signal for the driver to go. We have a long trip ahead of us, and I want it done before Fien wakes. Since that’s usually right at dawn, I better get a wiggle on.
“Do you recognize any of these people?” I remove a stack of licenses Smith printed when the drugs tracing through Theresa’s veins couldn’t stop the waggle of her tongue before twisting them to face Megan. “Whether in your family or outside of it.”
I can’t believe I’m playing into Theresa’s suggestion Megan and I are related. The Petretti genes are strong, and Megan looks nothing like me. Her hair is mousy, her teeth are chipped and crooked, and her eyes are hazel. And don’t get me started on the fact she’s batshit crazy, or we’ll be here all night.
I’m fucked in the head, but I’m not mentally challenged.
“I won’t hurt these people, Megan. I just want answers.” I’m such a fucking liar. If any of the thoughts running through my head are true, all these men are dead, then I’ll move for their families like Clover is hunting Maestro’s now. He broke the rules when he touched Roxanne, and now his entire existence will pay the price of his stupidity. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d remove a man’s legacy if he hurt Roxanne. I don’t play games when it comes to people I love.
I work my jaw side to side to loosen its grip when Megan asks, “Are you from the hotel?” Her voice is as weak as the fragile mouse she’s portraying, exposing I need to play on her insecurities. If she’s a damsel in distress, I need to pretend I’m a hero. It’s like good cop, bad cop, everyone has their role.
I unbutton my jacket before sinking into my seat, hopeful a blasé response will show Megan I mean her no harm. I don’t even have a gun on my hip. It’s stuffed down the back of my trousers, but that’s not the point. “I don’t own any hotels, but why would you ask that? Are you having trouble with some people at your hotel? I can help you with it if you’d like.”
She licks her cracked lips before twisting them so they match her screwed-up nose. “They’re okay. They are just really annoying.” The woman seated across from me would have to be mid-twenties at least, but she speaks as if she hasn’t reached her teen years yet, furthering my proof she isn’t a Petretti. Even when it could fuck her sideways, Ophelia was fierce.
After scooting to the edge of her seat, Megan drops her eyes to the stack of licenses. “Can I look through them?”
“Sure.” I smile at her like she asked to suck my dick before handing over the pile of papers. It is stupid of me to do. She’s more scared now than she was when Preacher snuck her out of a mental facility with a hessian bag pulled over her head and his hand clamped around her mouth. From what I heard from Smith, more than Preacher’s hand is suffering bite wounds.
I join Megan in balancing on the end of my seat when she says, “The staff asks about him all the time. I don’t like talking about him.” When she swivels on the spot, it dawns on me that the heat on her cheeks has nothing to do with the heat pumping out of the vents. “Nick, though… I talk about him all the time. Have you seen him lately?” She stops, huffs, then folds her arms in front of her chest. “He wasn’t with her, was he? I tried to fix his mistake. I gave her the drink like the man said. It didn’t work. She still had her baby.”
Her jump in and out of personalities gives me whiplash, but I attempt to maintain the momentum of our conversation. “What man, Megan?” I’ve shown her over a dozen images. She needs to narrow down the list of suspects for me.
She appears more innocent than insane when she brings her father’s identification card to the front of the stack. Carlyle Shroud looks like a cruel, villainous man incapable of raising a rat, much less a daughter whose mother died before she reached womanhood.
“Your father gave you something to hurt a woman?” I sound like a fucking moron, but mercifully, it seems to be a language Megan understands.
“Not my daddy, silly.” She laughs like I’m hilarious. “He is who the men