Collateral(6)

“It should be,” she snaps. “Maybe if it was, then people like Rebel and Zeth wouldn’t be free to incite mayhem. People wouldn’t be out there kidnapping young girls like Alexis right off the street. Here.” She pulls out a wad of photographs—at least twenty—and slaps them down in front of me. “These are all men killed on Charlie Holsan’s say-so. If your boy toy didn’t murder at least half of them then I shit rainbows, Sloane. And from meeting me, do I really strike you as the sort of congenial person who might be doing something like that?”

My pulse is racing—there are a lot of photographs in front of me right now, all displaying the mangled and very dead bodies of countless men—but I know what she’s doing. It’s pretty freaking obvious. If she can turn me, make me realize how dangerous the man that I’ve aligned myself with is, then her job becomes a whole lot easier. Shame for her that none of this is a surprise to me.

I know Zeth has hurt people before.

I know Zeth has killed people.

I know he’s done unspeakable things.

I know he thinks he is a monster.

But I also know him.

There is no excuse for taking another person’s life. I know that. I uphold that, and I firmly believe it. But Zeth didn’t kill Charlie’s enemies because he wanted to, or felt like it, and definitely not because he enjoyed it. He did it because he was hollow. He did it because he’s been surrounded by violence from the moment he was born, and he has never known anything else. He did it because Charlie Holsan was the man he looked up to as a child. Charlie Holsan was the role model giving Zeth his cues. He did it because Charlie Holsan ordered him to.

And despite that, despite the brutality of his past and his upbringing, there is still a kindness inside him. He protected me. He fought for me. He found my sister, and he’s carried me through so much. He’s not hollow anymore. And I know with a certainty he will never take another life again. Not unless he does it to protect me.

“The man has a mean temper on him,” Lowell continues, jabbing at the pictures. “What if it’s not some mark next time, huh, Sloane? What if it’s your head he’s holding a gun to?”

Oh, boy. No fucking way. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I stand so quickly the cheap plastic chair I’ve been sitting on crashes over. What feels like a hundred people stop eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and stare. “You don’t know this man. You clearly don’t know this man at all.”

Lowell holds up her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sloane. Just sit down, okay? Just sit back down. We’re not done here.”

“I think you’ll find we are.”

I’m moving through the crowds, then, shoving and pushing past people, trying to get out. She wasn’t going to get the papers from that judge. She never was. She came here to convince me to betray Zeth and nothing more. My blood is boiling in my veins. I have no cell phone on me. Rebel insisted, just in case I was being observed and didn’t know the walls had ears, but right now I desperately wish I had one. I want to call Zeth. I want to find him and get the fuck out of here.

I don’t turn to see if Lowell’s following me, but I know she will be. I know there will be other agents mixed in amongst the crowds observing me, too. That doesn’t matter. I charge blindly, my only thought finding a way out of the packed masses. I run up an escalator, shoving past people, determined to get by, and—

I stop.

What the fuck?

As I reach the top of the escalator, I make to push past the man blocking my way, only to find I recognize the person. He’s my father.

“Hello, Sloane.”

I stumble off the moving walkway, bracing myself against his chest, the palms of my hands laid flat against the brown suede jacket I bought him as a gift last Christmas. He gives me a sad smile, and I know I’m about to have my heart broken.

“If you have a moment,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from my ponytail back behind my ear. “I think we ought to have a chat.”





I don’t know what to do. I have never not known what to do. Michael’s hardly being helpful in this situation, either. Since we arrived at Fresco’s Coffee House, he’s done nothing but sit there, fully composed, drinking macchiato after macchiato and reading The Seattle Times.

I feel like I’m about to fucking explode.

“Are you going to be vibrating this badly the whole time we’re waiting? Should I go sit at another table?” Michael asks.

“Go and sit at another fucking table,” I growl. “I dare you.”

Michael folds the newspaper in half and places it on the table, fixing a blank look on me. “You want me to make some calls? Find out if anyone knows anything about Charlie?”