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“Ralph says you’re looking for someone.”
I squint at this guy. A lamp flickers overhead, mounted somewhere on the fire escape. “Say what?”
“You told him you’re after someone, someone with a specific tattoo, and that’s why you want into the underground. I just hope it’s worth it.”
“And the fucker told you all this about me? What the hell?”
“As I said, he’s been helping me. And he thought maybe you could use some help, too.”
Takes me a moment to wrap my mind around this. “Have you seen the hand tattoo?”
“I might have. Lots of people in the club.”
“You’d get me in?”
He shrugs. Tattoos climb up his neck like black snakes. “I may be able to.”
Mays and mights. This can only mean one thing. “In exchange for what?”
He grins like a shark. “I’ll tell you if I manage to get you in.”
I ponder this. I don’t like open-ended deals like this one, but what choice do I have? “Okay. Sure. When will you know if you can help me out or not?”
“Call me tomorrow morning.” He pulls a pen from his back pocket, grabs my hand and writes a number on my wrist. “Around six. I should know by then.”
I snatch my hand away as soon as he’s done. Not sure I can trust him. “Who are you anyway?”
“I’m Colt,” he says. “Call me, Rafe. And may we both find the people we’re looking for.”
I watch him leave, striding out of the alley and vanishing into the night. If I didn’t hurt so badly, I’d pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Seriously… Who is this guy?
***
The anniversary is dawning. I toss and turn in bed, bruises flaring to life with every movement. The fear of nightmares keeps me awake through the night, but in the early morning hours, exhaustion finally drags me down and I sink into darkness.
Crimson drips from the walls. They bleed. I touch the warm, sticky liquid. Smells like copper and it coats my finger, spreading down my hand, my arm, like a malignant fungus. The light is dim but I can feel it crawling over me, eating my flesh.
Then I hear her scream.
“Carla.” I stumble in the dimness, trying to find her. “I’m here.”
But I can’t see my little sister. Fear roils in my stomach. Something terrible is going on. I trail my hand on the walls, in the blood, searching, searching, and not wanting to find.
Then I’m there, right where my memories and nightmares take me every time—in the living room. The blood is everywhere, splashed on the walls, the floor, puddles and pools and fucking lakes of it.
And I see them.
My dad with a bullet hole on his forehead, his dark eyes wide open. My mom lying on the floor, crimson spreading around her. And my sister… She’s looking right at me, gasping my name, clutching the long kitchen knife stuck in her belly.
A match for the knife stuck through my shoulder, nailing me to the door. Every move I make to free myself tears through my flesh, causing broken bones to shift and grind, and I keep trying, desperate to get to her, because she’s still alive.
But I fail. The murderer turns to look at me, the black tattoo of a hand on his arm flashing like a beacon, and grins at me.
“Enjoying the show, boy?” he drawls. “Don’t worry, your turn will come.”
My body jerks.
