Page 96 of Crash into me
Fuck no.
A wave of nausea rolls over me as I scan each photo, and when I get to the letter … a growl escapes my sunken chest.
Skyler bounces back into the room, wrapped in a towel and brushing her wet hair. “Do you want to watch …” She trails off when her gaze takes in what’s in my hand.
I want to scream, to get angry, to destroy every piece of furniture in this fucking dorm. So instead, I inhale a deep breath to calm myself … but it doesn’t help.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s …” she stammers, holding onto the wall to right herself. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at my hand, dumbfounded. “How could you hide this from me?”
“I was scared!”
My heart crunches in my chest; all I want is to give her a good life. What if she was better off without me? “I am so fucking sorry this happened to you.” The blow from my hand hitting the nightstand blows the candles out and sends us into a dark room lit only by the moonlight. “But you can’t hide things like this.”
She rubs her arm with her palm, and it breaks me to know I’m making her anxious. “I know,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want you to do something stupid.”
I clench the envelope in my hands. “I’m going to Premiere to question her.”
“By question do you mean kill?”
I grab my keys. “I’ll let her decide that.”
“I’m coming with.”
Skyler POV
Foster getsto Premiere in record time; he didn’t obey any traffic lights or signs, but with the storm overtaking the city, there wasn’t anyone on the road.
He stomps inside, pushing aside the bouncers who try and stop him. When he reaches the VIP lounge bar, he slams the envelope on the counter. “I need to speak to Giselle.”
The bartender looks up, trying to recall the name. “No one by that name works here.”
I step forward. “Yes, she was our bottle girl.”
“What does she look like?” the woman asks.
Foster shakes his head. “Italian accent, long brown hair.”
“Green eyes,” I add.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” The bartender returns to her duties.
Foster pulls me close. “This is pointless. She works for the Keeper.”
We climb back into his car, a heavy sheet of rain pouring over it.
“I can’t believe how deep fucking rooted this piece of shit is with the city,” Foster sneers, peeling out onto the wet road.
I would be scared, but he knows what he’s doing. “Should we go to the cops?”
Foster smiles for the first time since he found the envelope. “I can almost guarantee you he owns them too.”
A call rings through, and Foster answers it through the radio. “Hello?”
“Hey there, Ghost,” an unfamiliar, yet memorable Italian accent bleeds through the speakers.