Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Two
Fuck.
I have some research to do tonight.
Cain’s scowling at his phone, too.
“Anything important?”
“Yeah. They got the details on the car that hit us, but the car was stolen so there’s no way to tell who was driving.”
“And the lights?”
“Someone reconfigured the timing grid at the intersection.”
Also notable.
I have to find out more about the missing women and the surviving victims. I open my phone again, and I Google shit I never want to Google until I’ve got a list of details involving the rape crimes around here lately. I do not tell any of this to Cain quite yet, because I have to find a way to do it without giving him a coronary.
I make notes on my phone.
Tonight, I’ll look up every detail I can until I have a better idea of what’s going on.
I slug the rest of my drink and raise my hand for another, just so I can get the bartender to come over.
He glances from me to Cain apprehensively. “Need a refill?”
He nods.
I watch as the bartender fills both of our glasses. He jerks his head behind him. “Be right there.”
He’s just trying to get us to not ask questions, I know he is, because I see no one has called him, no one who's waiting for him.
I turn on my most charming smile. “Oh, hey,” I say, crooking my finger at him to stay before he goes off again. “I actually have a few more pictures of the girl we’re looking for." I try to keep my tone casual, my body language relaxed. I wish I could send a message to Cain to lighten the hell up, because he’s definitely not contributing to the casual, relaxed vibe I’m going for here.
The look the bartender shoots Cain is nothing short of terrified, but I talk quickly so he doesn’t look at Cain and looks at me instead. “I’ve got a few more pictures for you.” I pull up the pictures I swiped from Skylar’s social media. “It’s really, really important we find her. Are you sure you didn’t see her? She was here last night on a date.”
The bartender rubs a hand across his face. I read once that touching one’s face is a classic sign of guilt or nerves, and I note this carefully. My guess is he didn’t have a direct hand in taking her, but somehow helped the people who did or at least knows who they are.
Son of a bitch.
I glance at Cain, narrowing my eyes to tell him to stop looking like the Grim Reaper, then quickly glance at the bartender.
Cain leans forward on his big, beefy arms, his voice a low drawl. “I’d be very pleased if you could help us find her. Like she said, she’s my sister.” Implication: And I’ll be pissed if you don’t.
“Right.” The bartender’s words are barely above a whisper.
Cain flashes a disarming grin that somehow makes my nerves stand on edge. There’s something about that smile I don’t trust. There isn’t an ounce of humor in his body right now. “I’m not sure we’ve met before?”
He extends his large hand out. It’s then that I notice small tattoos along the inner side of one hand. I can’t see what they are yet, but there’s a lot of them.
“Name’s Cain Master.”
Now this time, there’s nothing left to the imagination. The bartender pales, and only after prompting from Cain, reaches out and gingerly takes his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”
Cain shrugs. “Eh, people like to embellish facts. I bet half of what you heard isn’t true.”
And the other half is.
The bartender doesn’t reply at first. Then he clears his throat, and when he speaks, it’s in a low whisper. “Meet me by the dumpster out back. We can’t talk here.”
Cain slowly picks up his drink and sips. I take inventory. There’s one more bartender near the dishwasher, unloading clean, steaming hot glasses and placing them on a rack. A few people glance our way, but most are drinking or dancing, and in one corner of the room, some people play pool. A waitress sidles past me with a tray of pizza that looks so good my mouth waters.
Damn, this place is teeming with people, from young adults to teens, and I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in way too long.
“Finish your drink,” Cain says in a low whisper. “Then follow me.”
The bartender wipes down the space in front of him, turns, and leaves. He walks down a hall that leads to a door, a broken restroom sign leading his way. The door shuts behind him.
A minute later, Cain gets up from his seat, tosses a few bills on the bar for the tab, then goes out the door the way the bartender went. I follow. Someone crosses in front of me, putting more distance between me and the guys.