Riley groans. “If the dean already knows what’s happening, the gate guard will be on full alert. There’s no way we can get out of here with a car.”
“Good point.” I sigh and look to the ceiling for inspiration.
Kade dishes it out with his classic calm. “We’ll just have to sneak out through Henry’s dugout. There’s a gas station about half a mile down the road. We can grab a car there and return it later.”
“Yeah, right.” Riley curses and starts muttering about auto theft. Snatching his bag, he shoves in his phone and wallet.
Kade slaps his shoulder. “Chillax, bro. It’s for a good cause.” He gives me a grim look and pulls on his black beanie. His fingers are trembling a little.
“Okay, fine,” Riley grumbles. “It’s not like I’m gonna complain about breaking out of Eton Prison, right?” He tries for a smile but it falls flat.
With a short huff, he heads to Kade’s desk.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“I’m getting our cash-stash out of Chris’s room.” His eyes are grim with warning. “Face it, man. We don’t know what the hell we’re heading into. We might need it.”
He knows we’re clutching at straws here; he just doesn’t have the heart to say it. I turn away from the truth in his gaze, refusing to accept his last plea for me to stay put and let the police deal with it. Without another word, I go over and help him shift the desk. Then he disappears through the wall and reminds me exactly why I call him brother.
#35:
Family Feud
Christiana
“I didn’t do it,” I slur again, blood glistening on my lips like lip gloss.
I’m sitting on a hard wooden chair, my wrists and ankles bound. Thankfully they’re not bound to the actual chair; two beefy hands have that covered. The brute behind me grips my shoulders, keeping me in the chair while some chick with a punch too powerful for her skinny physique dishes out some major attitude.
I must look like something from a horror movie. A golf ball has grown on my left cheekbone and blood is trickling down my face. Her rings are sharp. My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. And no matter how many times I tell this stupid woman what I did, she won’t believe me!
“Did you want him to die, huh? Did you stand over his body while he bled out on the cold hard ground?” she screams in my face.
I close my eyes against her wrath, and with a calm that’s supernatural, I repeat the story again. “Marco Sorrentino pulled the trigger. I went into hiding because I’m going to testify against him. He’ll go to prison for the rest of his life and Robbie will get the justice he deserves.”
“You’re lying! You lured my brother in and baited him.”
“Never!” I rage back. “Your brother was the sweetest guy I knew! Why do you think I want my uncle to go down so bad? Robbie never deserved to die! I would’ve stopped it if I could have. I’m going to end this, and my uncle will rot in prison for what he did!”
“That’s not good enough.” She paces away from me. Her heels are gunshots on the floor, making me flinch. “He deserves death.”
She spins back, her eyes narrowing in on my beat up face.
“Your whole filthy family deserves it.” She’s back in my face again, slapping her hands on the arms of the hard wooden chair. Her spittle sprays my skin like poisonous venom. “My father warned you not to try for revenge, but you were too stupid to listen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A son for a son? Yeah, well, now they’re going to lose their daughter too!” She snaps her fingers and the brute behind me pulls out a knife and presses it to my throat.
I want to strain and struggle but the cold blade on my skin holds me still. It’s an effort to fight the panic spurting through me. “What son? What are you talking about?”
She goes still, her forehead wrinkling. “You don’t know?”
She flicks her fingers and the knife disappears. Grabbing my face again, she makes me whimper. Her pincer grip is hard and unrelenting. My cheek is screaming as my teeth grate against the cut.
“They never told you, did they?” She snickers and crosses her arms. “So, how do you think your brother died?”
I study her face, cautious with my response. “What brother?”
Shaking her head with a pitiful laugh, she tips her head and glares at me. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I mumble.
“So you weren’t born yet. Still, what kind of sicko wipes all evidence of their child from a home? You honestly know nothing?”
My throat’s so clogged it’s hard to swallow. My mind is racing. I don’t want to believe this woman, but she’s making it impossible not to. Her expression is raw with honesty.
“You had an older brother. He would have been six when you were born, but he was only four the day he died.”
Time slows down around me, the ringing in my ears replaced by an eerie silence. Her voice sounds far away but I can still hear every word she’s saying.