My stomach clenched around airport lasagna, threatening to expel it. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“I haven’t heard the message, but Ryan says it isn’t pretty.”
Great. But what the hell. Words couldn’t really hurt me, and maybe if he pissed me off, I’d fight better. “Yeah, put him on.”
“Here he is.”
I heard scratching sounds as the phone changed hands, then Ryan spoke into my ear. “Hey, I told Dad you wouldn’t want to hear this, so don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”
“What do you think I’m going to do, reach through the phone and snap your neck? I think you’re pretty safe, at least until I get home.”
Marc laughed and mimed snapping someone’s neck. I didn’t think it was very funny, but apparently I was in the minority.
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “That’s very comforting.”
“Just spit it out. What did he say?”
“That you’re going to pay for his face. This next part’s a direct quote. He said he’s gonna ‘beat you until you beg for mercy, then fuck you until you bleed.’”
My mouth went dry. Fear clutched my lungs, making it hard to draw a deep breath. And for a moment I thought the low rumbling sound was my stomach preparing to heave. Then I realized it was Marc growling, his expression so fierce I couldn’t stand to meet his eyes.
But before I could say anything, a loud whack sounded in my ear. Ryan howled in pain. The phone clattered to the floor of Daddy’s office, and I held mine out at arm’s length to save my hearing. My father’s voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Faythe. He should have known better than to pass on a message like that.”
I clutched Marc’s hand and tried to steady my voice. It almost worked. “He did warn me.”
“He’s used up all my patience and he should have known better,” Daddy said. “Maybe now he’ll think before he opens his mouth next time.”
My heart sank as I realized how often those words could have been applied to me.
My father took a deep breath, exhaling into the receiver. “I’m going to let you go now so you can focus. Just remember to stay within sight of the guys and keep your eyes and ears open. You know what you’re doing, so don’t start second-guessing yourself. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
It wasn’t until after we’d both hung up that I realized I should have told him I loved him. That’s me, always a second too late when it mattered. But that habit was about to change, because a second too late with Miguel would mean my death. Or worse.
Thirty
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time we drove into Oak Hill. The setting sun cast rosy streaks across the sky and long shadows on the ground, warning us all that night was near, and that with it would come Miguel. And one way or another, this entire ordeal would be over.
We had no trouble finding Carissa’s house, though none of us had been there in years. Nearly two miles after we passed the last residential neighborhood, Parker turned right off Highway 19 onto a private dirt road simply labeled Route 12.
The Taylors and their enforcers were the only residents of Route 12. Oak Hill was a very small town, and they lived on the northern edge of it, on a heavily wooded six-hundred-acre estate, which had been in their family for generations. Half a century earlier, when everyone else in the area was selling off large chunks of real estate for a quick profit, the Taylors had steadfastly clung to their property. Now they owned one of the largest acreages in the area. Like us, they treasured their space and their privacy, and there was plenty of both in the abundant Missouri woodlands, especially in their own private forest.
Several minutes after we turned, the Taylor house appeared on the right side of the road, at the top of a small crest half a mile from the highway. Behind it, the forest spread out as far as I could see, primarily a mix of oak trees—white, black, scarlet, and northern red—and other large tree species like black gum, maple, ash, elm, walnut and red cedar.
Against the lush, green backdrop, the house stood tall and proud, like the family it had housed for more than a century. It was a redbrick Greek Revival, with narrow white pillars, a wide, flat facing, and the trademark front gable. The house was set two hundred feet back from the road on a broad green lawn with a flower-lined brick walkway. It was beautiful, in both its strong straight lines and its wooded isolation.
The garage door opened as we turned into the driveway, revealing an empty space next to a high-end older-model sedan, painted beige, but probably called Autumn Harvest, or something equally pretentious. Parker pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. The door closed behind us.“Okay, that’s a little creepy,” Ethan said, staring out the rear windshield.
“It’s just Brian,” I assured him. “Daddy said he’d be here to let us in.” Sure enough, the door leading into the house opened, flooding the garage with light from a small utility room. One of Carissa’s brothers stepped out. He was in his early twenties, too young to have accompanied his father to the ranch on council business, but old enough and experienced enough to help us catch Miguel, even if our plan fell apart.
“Hey, Brian.” Parker got out and shook his hand while the rest of us climbed over each other in a tangled heap, each trying to be first out of the crowded van. I landed on my rear on the concrete, not a very dignified position for someone claiming to be in charge. Marc pulled me up by my hands and pressed me against the side of the van, a suggestive smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Give it a rest.” Lucas grabbed Marc’s belt loop as he passed, hauling him backward like a kid towing a wagon. Marc grinned at me and winked, but then his face was all business. By the time he turned to face Brian, he’d abandoned his smile in favor of a serious expression that managed to convey both competence and danger at once. I would have been happy to pull off either one.
After a quick round of masculine back thumping, I stepped forward and Brian held out his hand. “How are you, Faythe?” he asked, as if we were on a first-name basis. He probably thought we were. Because the ratio of tabbies to toms was so low, all the guys thought they knew us well, even the ones we’d only met once or twice. Especially me.
I’d made quite a reputation for myself by choosing college instead of marriage to Marc, and there were several toms who considered it their personal responsibility to tame the infamous shrew. Marc didn’t look favorably upon attempts to “tame” me. Neither did I, as one memorable tom from the northeast found out. He was okay, though. Dr. Carver was able to straighten out his fingers with minimal complications. Besides, it was only his left hand. He didn’t have much use for that one anyway, from what I understand.
But Brian Taylor didn’t seem like the daring type to me. He wasn’t cocky or brash. In fact, the opposite seemed true. He was polite, apparently genuinely concerned about me.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I took his hand and made eye contact. “How’s Carissa?”
“Okay. She’s a little freaked out by all this, though,” he said, and I nodded. That was understandable. “She said to tell you thanks for the warning. And good luck.”
“Thanks, but I don’t expect much trouble.” I let go of his hand. “We have them outnumbered by four to one. Those are pretty good odds.”
“I guess so. Come on in and let me show you around.” Brian led us through the utility room and into a large, clean kitchen, dominated by stainless-steel appliances and a roomy island rising from a sea of white tile. Beyond the kitchen was the dining room, flowing into a sunken living area carpeted in spotless white cut Berber.
The interior of the house was as modern and comfortable as the outside was stately and beautiful. The floor plan was open and welcoming, the ideal place for a party—or a massacre. But I couldn’t help imagining how bad a pool of blood would look against that immaculate white tile. Or soaking into the carpet. We’d have to make sure and kill Sean and Miguel outside, to save the Taylors a huge cleaning bill and a lengthy explanation to the authorities a cleaning service would no doubt call.
Fortunately, we were too far from large-scale civilization to have to worry about human witnesses. Or noise.
“These are for you.” Brian said, laying his hand on a neatly folded pile of clothing on the dining-room table. “Your dad mentioned that you needed some of Carissa’s clothes. She slept in these last night, so they still smell like her. Will that work, or should I look for something else?”
I held the nightshirt up to my face. It smelled like Carissa: young and healthy, with a hint of floral perfume and a moisturizing facial cream. “It’s perfect,” I said, laying the shirt back on the pile.
“Good. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge, so help yourselves to whatever you want.” That particular courtesy was in case we needed to Shift, which was a good possibility. I’d never met a cat yet whose refrigerator wasn’t well stocked. All the time. And judging from the Taylors’ extra-wide, side by side, stainless-steel monstrosity, there would be plenty to choose from. “Do you need anything else?”
“Nope, this ought to do it,” Marc said.