Page 73 of Dreadful

It’s a wake-up call, nothing more.

Troy works his jaw before turning his head and spitting blood onto the plastic.

“You spilling secrets, Troy?”

He spits blood to the side, splattering on the plastic underneath him. “I wouldn't do that. Ask Coco. She'll vouch for me.”

A dry laugh tumbles out. “Who the fuck do you think sent me?”

Blood drains from his face, turning his complexion pale in the seedy motel lamplight. “Fuck.”

I point toward his face with the gun. “Now you're getting it.” I start a slow circle around the chair. “You working with Crowe?”

“Fuck no. Those Devil's Hand assholes can get fucked.” He spits again.

“Lawrence and the Widowmakers?”

“No.”

I keep moving until I'm directly behind him. “Who are you feeding information to?”

“Jesus, fucking no one!” he sputters.

I bring the gun up and settle the muzzle against his temple.

Troy freezes.

“I don’t give a shit what happened between you and Coco twenty-five years ago, or last month or last night,” I say quietly. “I care about what happens to the people sleeping in that house. And if there’s a chance you’ve been feeding information to someone who wants them dead, I gotta take you out. You get that, right, Troy?”

His breath slips through his parted lips in short, little gasps. “I’m not working with anyone. I wouldn't—I wouldn't do that to you. You know me, man. You don’t remember it, but I—I used to come around more. When you were little.” He licks his lips, his words tumbling out quicker. “Like the one time Gage pushed Cruz into the pool, but he slipped, and your ma taught you how to stitch up his elbow in her bathroom. Blood everywhere—shit was a mess.”

The memory floats to the surface, but he’s got it wrong. Coco made Gage stitch up Cruz’s elbow since he’s the one who pushed him.

“You don't mean shit to me, old man.” I thumb the hammer back. The click barely carries over the rattle of the air conditioner.

Troy closes his eyes. His chest rises once beneath his shirt, then slowly falls. Another breath follows, shallower this time.

“Wait—just wait.” His head suddenly strains away from the barrel, the tendons in his neck pulling tight against his skin.

My finger stills against the trigger. But after five seconds of silence, I press the gun harder against his head.

“Just fucking wait a goddamn minute, Rafe,” Troy yells, the tendons in his neck bulging. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“It’s not personal, Troy. We all have our roles to play.”

“I’m a lot of things, okay? But I wouldn't do that to you—to him.” He turns his head, lifting his gaze until it connects with mine over the gun. “I’m Cruz’s fucking father, goddammit.”

TWENTY-FIVE

RAFE

It’s late by the time I finally push open my bedroom door, and my ribs are fucking killing me.

My head isn’t doing much better.

There’s too much shit rattling around inside it, pieces knocking into each other without ever clicking into place, and I’m so goddamn tired I can practically feel every thought scraping against the inside of my skull.

Then I see Bellamy.