A motor-mouth southern belle tries playing detective only to collide with a dangerously sexy biker.
Ellie Robinson takes it upon herself to secretly vacay to Sunny Valley, Alabama, on her best friend's behalf. There, Ellie uncovers a shocking truth...
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Twelve.
There are twelve pens.
My eyes strain as I count them again. The black holder has greasy fingerprints on it, smudging the shiny plastic with the police department logo on it. I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans, my legs restless, bouncing up and down as I wait.
Phones ring, cops chat, while some work on their computers or write things down in a file. None of them pay me any mind. I practically rattle the chair that I'm sitting in next to Detective Perry's desk.
It's nothing like how movies depict. The place is calm and chill, cops smiling, working. Some even nod my way as a form of greeting.
My neck breaks out in a cold sweat.
The last time I had walked in this place to talk with Detective Perry... my old man caught me. At first, I thought he had paid off a cop but then I learned... it was Red Light.
He had tailed me, knowing I was going to rat, knowing I couldn't keep the truth from being exposed. I had a kid's death weighing heavy on my conscience, the young boy's innocent blood on my hands.
Even today, the memory of that night causes my hands to twitch. The scar on my side tingles in recollection and my hand grips it, squeezing away the overwhelming thoughts.
Red Light's not here. He's on a ventilator in a hospital, waiting to be carted off to prison as soon as he's recovered. No one from the Silencer's are around. My old man is dead. I'm good. I lean over, elbows on my knees, and my fingers lacing together in front of my mouth. My nostrils let out a loud long exhale, my breathe warming my fingers.
I'm now counting the pens on a different desk.
Twenty-seven.
I stretch back after counting, my hands running through my hair in frustration, clasping the back of my neck, pushing the sweaty goosebumps down. My mind fills with the next stop on my list.
Picking up dad's ashes.
Talk about morbid.
Adonis and I have no idea what to do with them. There was no will and we're not doing a funeral. So, what now? Do we bury him? Throw the ashes to the wind somewhere?
I groan.
All I know is that we're not holding onto them.
The idea of having to watch the little box be stored away or put in the ground causes a bubbling nausea to climb up my sternum. Tossing them might be the best option, but where? Adonis is just as conflicted as I am about the whole mess, but we have each other, we're relying on each other. We can figure this out together.
My hand rubs over my beard, my thumb and forefinger finding one another through the tick coarse hairs. My eyes dart around for Detective Perry. My arms drop onto my legs and my eyes focus on the small scars hidden by my tattoos.
