Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“Asphyxiation is the cause of death, yes.” Reed confirms.
“Does Harley have any distinctive marks, scars, or birthmarks?” Hope asks, steering me away from the new information.
“She has a tattoo.” The Devil Skull Riders’ insignia is her birthmark. “Upper inner thigh,” I add. All women Devils have the emblem there, right over the femoral artery. The brothers have theirs on their chests, spreading over their hearts. The club is life.
The man in the white coat flits his eyes to the detectives through the glass. “Upper inner thigh,” Hope tells him.
“Left leg,” I add as she holds the intercom button down.
Moving around Harley, he lifts the sheet from her legs and the world stills. “Lower the sheet,” Officer Hope commands. But it’s too late. The mutilation of Harley’s thigh is already branded onto my brain forever.
The ink of her tattoo is nowhere to be seen—just raw, angry flesh.
Such violence.
She suffered.
She fucking suffered.
“Were there signs of sexual assault?” I ask, swallowing the rock lodged in my throat. That’s the motivation for most killers when it’s a young girl, right? I don’t want to know, but I need to. I have to know everything she endured. Allow it to harden me so I can hunt the fuckers who did this and rain the devil’s wrath upon them.
“No.” The reply is quick and confident.
A rattle shakes my body. Tears blur my vision. Small mercies.
The drapes begin to close, and a panicked gasp hitches my breathing. “Wait,” I plead, my hand pressing against the glass, willing it to disintegrate. I want to hold her.
“It’s okay,” Detective Hope assures me. It’s a lie. Nothing is okay.
“We would like to show you the belongings recovered from the body. Would you be able to confirm if the items belong to your sister?”
The body.
The words echo in my head before the door opens and another man in a lab coat walks into the room with a tray and places it on a metal table. It’s the kind of table you get in prisons when you’re sitting across from an inmate. I’ve visited too many prisons in my short lifetime.
A see-through bag sits inside the plastic tray, holding a few items inside. “Can we speak for a moment?” the man in the lab coat asks the officers.
“We’ll be right outside, Ms. Stewart. Please don’t remove anything from the bag. Just look and let us know if anything seems out of place.” Reed asks.
“Okay.”
I pull my gaze from the door closing behind them and scan the clear plastic bag. My skin tightens over my bones. Her phone with the stupid glittery pink case mocks me. A pack of gum lays crumpled inside, only half gone. The remaining gum will never be consumed. Harley’s beaten-up wallet that she refused to part with because it was a designer brand she found at a flea market almost five years ago has blood stained into the leather. An internal scream shatters me. A piece of material pokes out from beneath the wallet.
Swiping a hand across my nose, I flit my eyes to the door. Inhaling a deep breath, I pick up the bag to rearrange the contents. The material slips free from under the wallet.
No.
No.
No.
The room closes in on me, the pressure pushing down on my chest. I open the bag and snatch the fabric into my palm before closing the bag and stepping away from it. The material feels like a flame in my fist. My heart races. Sweat beads across my forehead. Dashing toward the door, I pull it open and dart out of it.
“Ms. Stewart.” Hope calls after me, but my legs are moving without permission. I’m down the corridor, pushing out into the night within seconds, my body heaving in fresh air. Vomit races up my throat and spills from my lips, splashing my shoes.
I hear the door open behind me and then footfalls coming up beside me. “Here,” Hope says, offering me a bottle of water.
“I need to go.” I push the bottle away and begin walking.
“Let me drive you home,” she protests.
“I’m not going home.” I take off jogging, tears fogging my vision. The moonlight slices through the space between buildings lighting a path. My heart pounds, muscles burn and scream for reprieve, but I don’t stop until I’m at the clubhouse gate.
“Bear,” I cry out to the camera, gripping the bars with desperation overwhelming me. “Let me in.” The clanking of metal alerts me to the gates opening. As soon as there’s a space big enough, I slip inside, racing toward Bear’s giant silhouette stepping into the car lot from the side door I escaped earlier.
“What is it, Rogue?” Bear asks as I launch myself into his arms and come apart. His body encompasses mine, offering me shelter from the grief tearing me to pieces. “Talk to me,” he urges, the rumble of his voice carrying through his chest, vibrating against mine.