Page 140 of Unholy Masks

The Sister frowned, her gaze drifting across the grounds as she mentally retraced the morning.

“The van...” she said after a moment. “The white cargo van he uses for his gardening work.” She glanced toward the empty stretch of driveway. “It’s gone.”

“What kind of van?”

“It’s old.” She rubbed her forehead. “White. Well, it used to be. Most of the time it's caked in mud. He drives it everywhere.”

“License plate number?” Ryden asked.

The sister’s face tightened. “I...” She shook her head apologetically. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he went or what he—”

“I do,” a small voice said.

A little boy stood a few feet away, no older than six or seven, his arms folded across his chest.

“You do?” Enzo asked gently.

The boy nodded.

“I do.”

He reached into his pocket and unfolded a small piece of paper, holding it out with both hands.

“Kurt gave it to me before he left.”

A strange chill settled over me.

“He said to give it to the pretty lady with red hair.” He looked straight at me. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

It was a note.

Little Love,

Here we are. Three more days, and it will be over. It’ll all be over. Can you please wait for me until then?

34

SIN AND SACRIFICE

TRISH

While Yara and the two men chased Irene in the dark spaces, I was with her. And she wasn’t pleased about her sorry state of life.

She’d regained consciousness sooner than I’d anticipated.

Kurt had tied her wrists securely enough, but he’d made the mistake most ordinary men made—he’d assumed a restrained woman was a helpless one. She had taught him, not!

He’d leaned in too close to check something, and she’d headbutted him, breaking his nose. Now he sat there, blood trickling down his chin, grumbling under his breath.

Kurt was loyal and useful, but he was painfully easy to manipulate. Kurt was dependable and also expendable, like Logan Jones.

“Hello, Irene.”

Irene glared at me with murder in her eyes.

“What am I doing here?”

“It was a sin, Irene, what you did. Your sister did it too,” I said.