Page 11 of Razor

As Santiago gazes at me with a cruel smile, I prepare myself for my world to blow apart.

“Request denied.”

His eyes glitter. “I will not leave you alone, or your father. The only way he escapes is if you are my wife. We marry in the proper way: the big wedding, the party, the celebration. You will look happy about that and play the perfect blushing bride.”

As he reaches out, I flinch, and his eyes flash with anger.

“You will learn to crave my touch, to bend to my will and be the perfect fucking wife even if I beat it into you. This is your life now, Josephine until I am bored with it. If you desire to stay alive, you will do exactly what I tell you to.”

I say nothing, but a spark of hope flares inside me—he is giving me time. Time to send a message. Time to regain the upper hand and time to plan my way out of this madness for both me and my father’s sake.

I’m aware that Santiago likes to do things properly, and if I play this right, I may have a small glimmer of hope of surviving this and ridding the world of this man for good.

CHAPTER 5

RAZOR

Ileave Sultan with my problem. I will return later today, and he will have information for me. There is no misunderstanding about that.

I'm confident he'll find out who took Sunday and where they've taken her. From what I've been told, Satan's Fury runs this town and doesn't tolerate strangers operating on their turf. They have a way of finding out whenever something goes down in their territory.

My destination is the next step in finding my girl, and as I park in one of the bays in the same lot she disappeared from, I prepare to question a few of the students.

As I scan the area, I note the small compact parked under a nearby tree, and my heart clenches.

Sunday’s car.

I have the license, make, and model number. The Reapers paid for this, and I have the details that Lucy sent over.

My tread is heavy as I slam the door of the van and take a few steps to the place she was last seen.

I run my hands over the shiny white paint, picturing her behind the wheel, singing along to the crazy tunes she adored, as if the world wasn’t watching.

It thumps me hard in the heart. Why didn’t I protect her? I set her free in a hostile world by not being better.

I noted it in her eyes, felt it on her lips. The soft smiles she directed my way, her light touch, and gentle kisses. Her easy conversation as we lay side by side in her bed, our fingers entwined, her talking, me listening.

I maintained indifference, but I’m a good actor. I hung onto every sweet word she said, loving the soft lilt of her words. Her smooth skin, her impudent grin, and the way she dealt with my shit.

Sunday was—is the first woman who gets me, and I let her down. Big time.

“Can I help you?”

I turn, noting two guys standing a safe distance away, nervously asking a question I would ordinarily ignore. However, I’m here for answers, and from the look of it, these guys may be forthcoming, and I lean against Sunday’s car.

“I’m investigating the disappearance of Sunday Monroe. Can you tell me anything?”

“Are you the cops?” One of them asks, his doubt obvious.

“A private investigator.”

He nods, my description adequate, and I wonder when kids will wise up and ask more questions before spilling their guts to any stranger who spins them a lie.

“We didn’t see what happened but Scott Patrick was talking to her before she was, well, abducted.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’ll be at football practice. But you can’t go there. The coach won’t let anyone on the field during training.”