Blood to Dust

“Positive.”

We escort Tony and Caleb back to the RAM and press the call button. We hear everything, sitting on the bed and listening to their every move. They drive silently, grunting and whimpering the whole journey. We hear the noisy road and the bell of the elevator to Godfrey’s office building, which I recognize, and we hear them delivering the news we put in their mouths.

Nothing to worry about.

Nate and Prescott are dead.

The bodies will be retrieved soon after dark falls.

“Why should I believe you?” Godfrey’s voice is dripping doubt. There’s shuffling over the line, presumably the sound of the men producing the chunk of Prescott’s hair which we plucked out of her skull—from the root, we simply had to—smeared in their own blood. And I know they must be showing him one of her stress balls and a slice of my black jeans. “We’ll go back up to Martinez and get the rest at night. We couldn’t do it in broad daylight.”

“My people will handle it,” God growls. “You better not be lying.”

More whimpers. “Godfrey, we’d never.”

“I know, because then you’d be dead.”

No, motherf*cker. By the time you figure out we’re alive, they’ll have already packed up their shit and their loved ones and have run away from your claws, I think to myself.

The phone conversation doesn’t end until they crawl back to the hole where they came from, but I’m not worried about them coming back to warn Godfrey. He may be powerful, but not as powerful as their love for their families. We disconnect the phone call that had us sitting in thick silence for hours, our only form of communication was our eyes. The minute I click the line dead, Prescott turns to me, pink on her cheeks.

“I was going to tell you sooner,” she mumbles, staring at her hands resting on her thighs. “About being broke. What was I supposed to do? Let you hand me over to Godfrey?”

I shake my head. It’s not an answer, but it’s the only thing she’ll get right now.

I’m about to head into the bathroom to try and finish that shower I started a few hours ago. Prescott flings up to her feet, standing in front of me. I scan her, my lower lip pulling my upper one in frustration.

“You’re in my way.” I warn.

“Baby. . .” It’s the first time she’s called me that, and her hazels are two pools of misery. They beg me for something. I’m not sure what, but know that it’s already hers. “When this is all over, I’ll give you everything I’ve got left. I’ll walk out of this with nothing but my bag. I promise you, Nate. Just please forgive me. I can’t bear the thought of you hating me.”

That’s another problem I’ll have to deal with. I can’t let her walk away penniless. She’s a lone, beautiful girl in this dark world, and she’s as poor as my f*cking social skills. She’ll have to pay her way through her next meal somehow.

I know exactly how.

And I’d never let it happen.

“Where the f*ck did all your money go, huh?” I push her away, angry heat rolling from my body. “You sure as hell were able to afford a glitzy-ass apartment in Danville, and last time I checked, the crack business ain’t exactly in recession.” She looks away, embarrassed. Her eyes catch a glimpse of the outside through the filthy window, following the graceful movements of a tiny bird.

“Private investigators.” She swallows. “I wanted to find out what happened to my brother.”

“Goddamn,” I groan, rubbing my face with my palms.

“They all came back with the same conclusion, either he left the states or he’s dead.”

Whimper. Sniff. Less storm. More heartbreak.

I have to tell her.

“Look, I didn’t bring it up until now because I didn’t think it meant shit, but when I was working in Blackhawk, I bumped into your old man at a grocery store. He’s been telling people your brother went to college on the east coast.”

Her brows knit together. “My brother dropped out of high school,” she tells me, and I nod. That’s what Mrs. Hathaway said as well. There’s a second in which her eyes flicker with understanding, and she realizes what this means.

“He’s covering up something.” Her jaw clenches. I drop my forehead to meet her blonde little head. She knows the drill. Plot threads connect. Pieces fall together. He’s probably not alive, and if he is—he’s not well.

“Whatever happened to him, my father knows.”

I tug at her blonde locks softly, planting a kiss on her head. “What else did he say?”

I’m not going to tell her what he said about her. The way I hurt her. . .it’s different. I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to cut deep. I just want her body to feel what I feel when I see her come alive in my hands. No. Inflicting real pain on her, the kind that stays under your skin, is something I’m incapable of doing.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Overheard him making small talk with some dude in a bowtie.”

“Mr. Simpson,” she gasps. “How did he look? My dad?”

“Like a sack of shit who created something beautiful and doesn’t know how to take care of it.” Raw truth leaves my mouth. “Forget about him, Cockburn. He’s a nobody. But what else are you hiding, Pea? Godfrey said something about you having a kid.”