Six weeks before
I don’t know how I’m going to explain the fat lip and bruises to my aunt. I know it’s a ridiculous concern considering two men just wrestled me into the back of a black Escalade. They flank me now and a third calmly sits across from us, studying me.
He looks a bit like a cross between Andy Garcia and De Niro. He’s in a full tailored black suit, despite the fact that Arizona is literally located on the sun, and it’s blistering hot outside. The gaudiest gold and diamond ring I’ve ever seen is on his left pinky finger.
He raises a salt and pepper brow. “Sloane McCormick?”
“Who’s asking?” Adrenaline and fear give my words bite.
His lips twitch, but his eyes remain impassive. Cold. “I’m an associate of your father’s.”
A stone sinks down, down, down and lodges in my stomac
