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Just as Ghost takes a set of keys out of his pocket, the door thumps once more, even louder this time.
He tosses the keys to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Warning be damned, I won’t be denied the truth that I am owed.
With fumbling fingers, I fit the key in the lock, twist, and open it.
The sight that greets my eyes is fit for a horror novel, not a romance novel, no matter what Ghost might believe. There’s blood everywhere — the floor, the walls, even parts of the ceiling, are painted with it. There’s a floor drain in the center of the room, which I suppose should make cleanup easier, but with a mess like this, even that seems useless. To get a clean room, it’d be better to demolish the place and just build a new one.
In the center of the gore stands Dixon.
His chest is heaving, his brow cut, there are contusions on his arms and face, and even a bite mark, too. He stands with his hands clenched at his sides, staring down at a lump of something on the ground.
Then I blink.
That lump is Erik Marquez.
Or was, to be more appropriate.
“You killed him?”
“I had no choice.”
“You were supposed to get me as soon as he started talking. What the hell is this? How am I supposed to get answers from that?” It doesn’t feel right calling what used to be a human being a ‘that,’ except Erik Marquez has been so battered that he doesn’t even look like he ever was human. “With a fucking Ouija board?”
“He told me the truth before he broke out."
“Oh?” My heart stills a little, my fists unclench. I want to believe Dixon, just as much as I want the truth. “What did he say?”
“You’re going to want to sit down, Alexandra.”
“Tell me now.”
“Are you sure? I think you should sit down.”
“I think I’ve waited years for this fucking answer, and unless you want to have a serious physical problem, you’ll tell me.”
He shakes his head. It doesn’t come across as a sign of denial, but regret.
“No, you definitely haven’t earned, nor deserve, what I’m about to tell you…”
His voice sounds so sad that I’m drawn to him, to the pain I hear from him, until I remember just why I’m here and what he’s done.
“Tell me, please.”
“Erik confessed he was at the meeting. He was hired to watch from a distance and shoot to provoke a fight between the two clubs. If things looked like your brother was going to survive, he was supposed to make sure that didn’t happen,” he says. Then he clears his throat. “It was his shot that took out your brother. I’m sorry, Alexandra.”
I blink for a second. On the one hand, this answer absolves Dixon, and I suppose I should be happy about that. On the other, it raises questions that make my blood turn cold.
“He was hired? Who hired him? And why?”
“Alex…”
“Dixon, tell me. I need to know. After everything we’ve been through, don’t keep this from me.”
He waits. There’s such entrapping pain on his face that I can’t peel my eyes away.
Finally, he speaks.
