Page 80 of Tiny's Testament
She butts her head under my chin, purring loud enough to drown out the flickering lights. Up close, I notice her bent whiskers, a tiny cut on her paw, and dust crusted in her fur. She didn’t wander in here. She fought to get in. She clawed through vents and darkness, following the faintest trail of my scent and instinct. If Peanut can track me through this maze of hell, then Tiny can too. Tiny will.
Tears spill before I can stop them, hot streaks falling into Peanut’s dirty fur. She chirps, annoyed at my emotional display, and swats my cheek gently with her paw like I’m the one who worried her.
Laughter breaks through a sob in my chest.
Across the room, one of the women whispers, “A cat? How did a cat…?”
I smile through the tears. “Her name’s Peanut… and she doesn’t quit.”
The younger girl grips the bars of her cage. “If a cat can find you… Someone else can too.”
Someone. But I know who she means.
Tiny.
A low vibration in the concrete makes the rafters tremble. The distant thunder of engines, roaring and growing closer, makes my pulse spike.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to Peanut’s, breathing in her dusty warmth. “He’s coming,” I whisper, trying to summon whatever strength I have left. “He won’t stop.”
18
TINY
An address we beat out of the last Hellhound takes us south. The ride to the motel is a blur of streetlights and rage. My knuckles ache from gripping the bars too hard, and every red light feels like a personal insult from God.
Pearl’s name keeps punching through my skull alongside Syvannah’s face, her confusion, her fear, the way she looked at me before she disappeared, like she wasn’t sure who she was seeing anymore.
I push the bike harder.
The motel sits on the edge of Long Beach, sagging under the weight of secrets no one wants to know. A neon VACANCY sign flickers above the office, buzzing like a dying insect. Room 12’s door is crooked, its paint peeling in strips. Someone tried to fix it once, then gave up halfway through.
I’ve done the same with people. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that half-finished things could be saved.
I stop the bike, kill the engine, and listen. Thick, heavy silence echoes around us.
After climbing off my bike, I draw my gun and make my way to the motel. I nudge the door with my boot, and it creaks open just enough to let the smell of bleach and rot hit me.
“Pearl…” I whisper, already fearing what I’ll find.
I push the door the rest of the way open.
She’s in the bathroom. Knees buckled beneath her, slumped against the tub, a needle still resting in the crook of her arm like some sick accessory. Her head tilts to one side, hair matted. The cheap motel lighting washes her out, makes her look smaller than she ever let herself appear in life.
Dark, finger-shaped, angry bruises around her neck freeze me in place.
Someone squeezed the breath out of her. The needle is just a set dressing.
I step inside slowly, like sudden movement might disturb her. My chest tightens. Pearl annoyed me more than most. She lied easily, loved hard, and wanted to be wanted by men who barely looked at her. She wasn’t simple, but she wasn’t cruel. Just lonely in a way that turned sharp when ignored.
“Why the hell did you get yourself mixed up in this?” My voice cracks against the tile.
Behind me, the door flies open. Heavy boots hit the floor.
Capone enters first. Blayze on his heels. Torch, Trigger, Derange, Aftermath, Aloiki, and the Twins crowd the doorway until the room is overflowing with men who know the look of a staged suicide too damn well.
Capone covers his nose with the back of his hand, breathing through his mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
Torch shakes his head slowly. “She never used. Not once.”
