Cards of Love: The Tower Page 5

  Her gaze is glued to the warmth at the horizon, and a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. The first smile I've seen on her since she asked for that drink a perceived lifetime ago.

  But the moment doesn't last long. Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile is gone again, replaced by the same frightened worry that has been present in her expression ever since I took her.

  "Is this it?" she asks, catching me off guard with her question.

  She turns to look at me, sadness marking her pretty face. "Is this where I'm going to die?"

  My chest tightens at her question, and before I find the words to respond, she adds, "Did you want to give me one more moment of peace before you put a bullet through my head?"

  Her expression tightens and reproach laces every word, masking the fact she must be terrified at the thought.

  I shake my head. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it long ago."

  I want that to be the truth. It's so refreshing to voice something other than a lie that only serves to protect myself—and her. But that phrase makes it sound like I can be certain of the future.

  Like I know I won't kill her. Ever.

  And here's the scary thing: I'm still not sure of that.

  She doesn't need to know that, though.

  "So what then?" she asks, sounding impatient. "Are you kidnapping me after all? I told you there's—"

  "No, I'm not kidnapping you," I cut her off.

  "Then I'm free to go?"

  I shake my head. "No, you're not."

  "So I am your captive then?"

  I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Fuck if I know."

  The tense silence stretches between us. I avert my eyes from her, latching on to the sunset instead and hoping she will do the same. It really is a beautiful sight, accompanied by the sounds of birds instead of gunshots. I haven't been surrounded by this much peace and quiet in years. Too many years to count.

  I can feel her eyes on me, probing, waiting. She has questions I've refused to answer for days, and I know I can't continue like this, especially if I want her to cooperate.

  The problem is, I don't know what to tell her. The truth? That I work for an organization whose current goal is to make the Abbott family vanish entirely, meaning not only that her uncle is still being hunted by us, but also that her own life is in danger. That I've taken her with me because I don't know what to do with her? That she's safe with me right now, but I can't promise her it will stay that way?

  I told her that she should trust me, but I'm the first to know she can't trust me.

  She's burdened with an abundance of questions, all weighing heavily on her small frame, and I don't know how to answer a single one of them.

  Except for the one she throws at me next.

  "Are you the Bridgewater murderer?" she asks with a thin voice, quivering with a taste of fear.

  Her inquiry comes out of nowhere, surprising me enough to make my head turn and meet those incredible blue eyes of hers with a frown on my face. "What?"

  "You know," she says, assuming the look of a person who is entirely cool and not worried by the response they might receive. "That guy who steals girls, locks them away, tortures them, and then kills them. It's been on the news all over. And he operates in this area."

  I know what she's talking about. I've heard of the so-called Bridgewater murderer, but I'm appalled at her suggestion that I could have anything to do with that disgusting animal.

  "This area?" I repeat. "You don't even know where we are."

  "We're still in New England, aren't we?" she says, sounding bitter. "We only drove for a few hours and never boarded a plane. So, yes, I may not know where exactly we are or what state we're in, but I know that this is an Indian summer sunset. We could be close to Bridgewater, for all I know."

  "We're not," I tell her. "And I'm not that guy."

  "Well, he never asked for ransom money either, so—"

  "I am not that guy!" I yell, causing her to flinch.

  "Fine," she whispers. "You leave me no choice but to assume things. Since you're not talking to me, Keane."

  Her emphasis on my name doesn't sit well with me.

  "Fine," I respond, aggressively raising my voice. "You wanna know the truth?"

  Her eyes flicker with anxious curiosity, and she hesitates but then nods. As eager as she is to find out the truth behind the horror that has befallen her, she must suspect that the answer could be even more frightening than not knowing at all.

  Yet I know she will keep pushing. Despite the apparent worry that comes with her questions, she won't let go of it until I give her something.

  But all I can give her is a part of the truth. A truth that could be too much to handle for a girl like her. Just like many other things in life, this is all about moderation. I won't give her all of it, but I will give a crucial truth that has led every single one of my decisions when it came to her.

  "You're here because I don't want to see you dead."

  Chapter 11

  Libby

  We haven't spoken much since he led me inside the house. I'm torn between being terrified, annoyed, and... weirdly attracted to him.

  Given the circumstances, I can probably count my blessings that I was taken by a man like Keane. A man whose sexual appeal is undeniable, a man who drew my attention right from the start. It feels like fate is playing a cruel little game with me by sending this man to confuse me with a blend of attraction and terror.

  He insists he wasn't the one who took the shot that ruined my shoulder, and I believe him even though it wasn't as easy to believe as the fact that the bullet that hit me in front of the elevator was meant for my uncle and not me.

  But if neither of those bullets was meant to hit me, why does he say that he fears for my life?

  "You're here because I don't want to see you dead."

  Our conversation ended with that simple and shocking sentence because I was too dumbfounded to come up with a reply before he turned away and led the way into the little cottage. It's a small two-story house with thick stone walls painted in white and dark roofing tiles. The first floor consists of one big living room with an open kitchen tucked beneath the stairs that lead up to the second floor.

  He told me to sit on the sofa so he can keep an eye on me while he prepares us something to eat. So I'm sitting at the far end of the room, awkwardly hugging myself with one arm while I watch him make sandwiches for us.

  As if we were a couple on a weekend getaway.

  He was adamant about me not lifting a finger, insisting I was useless anyway. That's not entirely true because I was lucky enough to be shot in my left shoulder, leaving my strong side totally intact and capable. But I'm not unhappy about having a moment to sit and relax. The drive wore me out even though I wasn't the one driving. And I can feel the pain medication wearing off, reminding me that—despite the obvious improvement I've managed over just a couple of days—my shoulder is still in pretty bad shape.

  "You said you don't want to see me dead," I say, my voice barely strong enough to carry across the room. "How do you feel about seeing me in pain?"

  He glances at me while adding cheese to the slices of wheat bread he's laid out. "Is that your way of asking me for some pain meds?"

  He sounds annoyed but only slightly so.

  "Are you in pain?" he asks.

  Something else is marking his voice this time, something that warms my heart in a way that it shouldn't.

  Worry. He worries about me. His words aren't the only hint in that direction.

  But why?

  I nod. "The meds from the IV are starting to wear off."

  He nods, lowering his gaze back to the task at hand.

  "I have some stuff here," he says. "I’ll get it for you after we eat."

  "What is this place?"

  I know that posing this question to him usually doesn't get me anywhere, but it's worth a try. Always. He'll have to talk to me eventually, and I know he will.

  Either
that, or he'll find another way to shut me up.

  "It's mine," he simply responds without looking up. "No one knows we're here."

  "Is that supposed to scare me or make me feel better?"

  I'm surprised at his reaction when he lets out a little chuckle instead of becoming angry with me.

  He's shaking his head, adding some mustard on the sandwiches before he says, "I don't know, Libby. I guess I was going for the latter here."

  "Because you don't want to see me dead," I repeat his former statement. "But other people do?"

  The expression on his face tightens when he nods. "Yes."

  "The ones you work with? The guys who shot my aunt?"

  "Yes."

  "Who are you working for?" I probe. "Why were you at that event to kill my aunt and uncle?"

  He doesn't respond and just keeps his head low, focusing on the sandwiches in front of him as if they were the most complex task a person could face.

  "Were they the only ones you wanted to kill?" I continue my questioning, hoping he'll eventually give in and answer at least one more of my many, many questions. "Or were there others? Did you have like... a list or something?"

  He looks up, locking me with his dark gaze for a moment before he responds. "Are you sure you want to know all these things?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't," I say, frowning at him. "Wouldn't you want to know if you were me right now?"

  Keane sighs and shrugs his broad shoulders. He's wearing a tight black shirt, accentuating his muscular frame and revealing the half sleeve tattoo on his left arm. He looks dangerous.

  Deliciously dangerous.

  I've always been drawn to men like him. Men who radiate violence and misconduct. Men who play by their own rules.

  Men who get you in trouble.

  However, never in a thousand years would I have expected this fascination to go this far. This man is a killer. He shot at me, and even though that bullet was meant for someone else, it still left me injured. The doctor at the safe house said that I would make a full recovery but would need physical therapy to regain full mobility.

  Physical therapy. Right now, even something as mundane as that seems unobtainable for me.

  I wonder how long it will be until someone notices that I'm gone? Of course, my uncle knows. But does he care? Is he glad I'm gone? Does he think I'm dead?

  Does he wish I was?

  Other than him, I don't know who'd even notice my absence any time soon. Most of my friends from college left shortly after graduation to return home, pursuing graduate studies in a different state or starting their first job. I was one of the very few who stayed in California for a while longer, uncertain what to do with my life. Traveling all the way back to the East Coast, returning to the city that's closest to a place I could call home was a spontaneous decision, born out of utter disorientation.

  I flew back aimlessly, and right into the hands of a contract killer.

  A contract killer who is now preparing a light dinner for me.

  I watch in anticipation as Keane joins me on the couch, serving the sandwiches on a wooden tray. "Eat."

  I cast him a short glare, torn between the urge to reject his demand and the fierce hunger that's making my stomach growl.

  "I'll eat. If you tell me about that event," I say, trying not to make my craving for food get in the way of my determination to obtain information from him.

  He regards me with narrow eyes, slowly shaking his head.

  "Don't test me, Libby," he says. "You're not in the position to make deals with me."

  "What kind of position am I in then?" I hiss at him. "I'm not your kidnapping bait, but I am your prisoner. I have no worth to you, but you still feel responsible for my safety. I'm not dead, but I should be..."

  "Eat," he repeats his command. "Just take a fucking sandwich, and I'll tell you while you eat."

  I only last for one short moment before I reach for one of the sandwiches, casting him a dark look as I take my first bite. I was hoping for him to start talking as soon as I obeyed his demand, but instead, he starts eating himself. It's hard to hide my disappointment, but I also can't blame him, considering he must be just as hungry as I am.

  We eat in tense silence for a while; both avoiding eye contact the entire time. My gaze wanders through the room, trying to find any clues that would help me make sense of him or this house. He said it was his, but it doesn't look like he lives here. As a matter of fact, it doesn't look like anyone has ever lived here even though the place is furnished. Two big sofas and a loveseat are arranged around a fireplace that doesn't look like it's been used recently. Two bookshelves line the wall, but there's nothing on them. The curtains around the small windows were closed when we stepped inside, and the room was almost as cold as the outside. The furniture is simple and modern, new and seemingly unused.

  But the kitchen seems to be well equipped with everything one could ask for. I could tell when he was gathering the ingredients for our sandwiches. The fridge and the cabinets were well stocked, ready to feed an entire family for days. This really seems like a secret getaway place; a house that no one lived in but was ready to shelter anyone in need.

  Maybe he lied. Maybe this house used to belong to one of his victims, and he just declared it his own?

  There's no way of knowing, really.

  I turn to him, politely waiting until he's taken his last bite before I probe. "So?"

  He returns my look, still chewing and taking his sweet time before deigning me with a response.

  "I can't tell you who I work for," he begins. "But I can tell you that our mission that night was to eradicate the Abbott family, which meant killing your uncle and aunt, and three of their business associates."

  I suck in a sharp breath of air as a cold shower of shock prickles down my spine. "And me? My last name is Abbott. I must have been on that list, too."

  He shakes his head. "No, you weren't, which is why you're still alive."

  "But why not?"

  "Because no one knew you existed," he says, his eyes locking onto mine as a shadow of annoyance crosses his face. "We've never been lazy when it comes to research, but for some reason, your existence was a well-hidden secret."

  After an ominous pause, he asks, "Care to tell me why that is?"

  I bite my lower lip, trying to hold his gaze as I try to gather the right words.

  It's been so long since I've had to face one of the darkest chapters of my young life. The one that changed everything for me.

  The one chapter that possibly saved my life.

  Chapter 12

  Keane

  My last name is Abbott.

  She could not have found a better way to show me how fragile and distant the relationship with her family is. She phrased it in such a removed way, almost cold.

  She barely shed a tear over the death of her aunt, and she doesn't seem to be concerned about her uncle at all even though it must be obvious to her that we're still after him.

  This girl obviously doesn't have the best relationship with her family, which begins to explain why the Covey didn't know about her.

  She looks sad and frightened, curling up on the sofa next to me as if to shield herself from pain. But there's no protecting herself as the pain comes within.

  "Tell me," I push her. "What's your secret?"

  She doesn't look at me but rounds her back even farther. The clothes I gave her are men's clothes and way too big for her small frame. The hoodie hangs loosely around her narrow shoulders, hiding the splint that stabilizes her shoulder.

  Just as I'm beginning to think she has no intentions of responding to my inquiry, she lets out a deep sigh and straightens her back, a visible display of someone who's preparing herself to give voice to an ugly truth.

  "I wasn't exactly what my family expected me to be," she starts vaguely. "I didn't fit in with the picture-perfect Abbott heritage, so they hid me, sent me off to boarding school when I'd just started high school."

  Picture-perf
ect Abbott heritage?

  Oh, naïve little Libby. She appears to be one of those poor souls who was kept in the dark about the Abbotts' true endeavors. I've often heard that they were so good at keeping their public image clean that even some of their own family members weren't aware of the criminal wheelings and dealings growing the family's wealth. Corruption, fraud, and even complicity to murder—the Abbotts have been involved in all this if there was financial gain.

  Even Abbott Tower was a product of their dark handlings. The commission was given to a company that's known for their continuing tax fraud, but their CEO is good friends with Clyde Abbott, who, in return for getting them this commission from the city, not only got his name plastered on one of the most prestigious buildings in town but also took away a much-needed cash injection from a local hospital.

  Of course, no one knows about this. And in line with all the other things the Abbott empire has been involved in for decades, this was just a minor deception that may have been morally wrong and partly illegal, but at least not as deadly as their association with the local mafia. People have been killed in the Abbott name because they were in the way of their business, and they didn't care who these people were. Men, women, criminal, innocent civilian—it never mattered to them.

  The Covey may not be much better, but at least we fucking own our evil and don't pretend to be something we're not.

  We don't get innocent people involved, we try not to kill innocent people, and we don't have young girls like Libby living in our midst. People who don't even know what kind of danger they're living in.

  Here she sits, with gunshot wounds blemishing her perfect body, scared and confused, talking about a picture-perfect family that she wasn't good enough for.

  It makes me furious.

  "What made you the black sheep?" I wonder out loud. "What could a child possibly do to have its family turn their back on them?"