Ugh. I stand up, swaying crazily, and look around for the bathroom. Right. There isn’t one. There’s a sink, though, and I stumble to it. A mirror hangs on the wall above and I take a look at myself.

I wince. The Band-Aid above my eye is soaked through, and dark streaks of dried blood run down my face and neck into my gray T-shirt. The same side of my face, in fact, that’s bruised blue-black and swollen.

Lifting my bloody T-shirt, I trace the deep bruising. Then I bend awkwardly to check my throbbing leg and find more bruises there. Fuck.

I clean the blood from my face best I can. Then, hobbling like an old man, I grab my duffel and leave the room.

Midday, huh. Nobody’s there as I make my slow way down the stairs. Whatever was in those pills Johnny gave me, it has to be good stuff to knock me out like that.

My stomach growls like a caged tiger, so I walk around the neighborhood, looking for a cheap place to eat. Snow clouds are hanging low. The day is drab and gray. It matches my mood.

I find a mom-and-pop diner where I slide into a dark booth and eat a greasy burger and fries. The hot coffee warms me up, clears my head some.

I lost the third fight last night. Johnny said something about me fighting too clean. I should work on that. I need to win, need more money. The little cash I have won’t take me far; it’s not enough to rent a place, which would be cheaper in the long term. Safer.

Normal.

If I fight for a few weeks, save money to start anew, I can do this. But god, I ache all over.

‘Don’t be a pu**y,’ my dad’s voice rings inside my head. ‘You can take a little pain.’

I hunch over. I’ll do this. And afterward maybe, I’ll tell Audrey about the fighting—when it’s all over and I’m not doing it anymore, when I’m not involved in illegal stuff. When I have a place of my own and a steady job.

Problem is, I miss her already.

I look down into my mug of coffee and clench my jaw. My mind misses her, my body craves her. What we did yesterday... Fuck, is it only yesterday? Her warmth, her gentleness... It’s all I can do not to get up and go to her right now.

Suddenly cold fear grips my chest. Will she let me back inside? Why would she wait for me? I haven’t explained anything to her. Like an idiot, I keep telling myself I’ll fix my life first, be someone worthy of her—but what if she moves on, meanwhile?

I have to talk to her, let her know I haven’t just disappeared. That I’m still alive, and just need some time to get out of the hell pit I’ve fallen into.

Fucking hell, my life is such a mess.

But first I have to go see Johnny at the club. A vague memory from last night tells me he wants to kick me out and that I yelled at him—and then he said I should go see him this next afternoon.

Oh f**k, he wouldn’t throw me out, would he? I need this money. It’s all I have.

I chuck back the rest of my coffee, use the bathroom. Then I pay and leave the diner, bracing myself for the cold. I pull my jacket closed, my muscles stiffening. It does great things for my bruised ribs.

People throw me funny looks as I cross the street and hobble in the direction of The Bulldog. I give them the stink-eye. So what if I look like a zombie from The Walking Dead? Don’t they have anything better to do?

It sinks in, then, that I’m now officially on the wrong side of the tracks—a criminal, a lowlife, a piece of trash. At any rate, I look the part.

Pressing my lips together, I walk faster, hefting my duffel on my shoulder. Already in my head I’m arguing with Johnny, convincing him of my need to stay at the club. I’ll tell him all about my dad, whether he likes it or not, impress on him the importance the fight club has for me.

The entrance of the club looms dark; the door’s closed. I go down the steps and ring the bell. I don’t have to wait long. The latch lifts and the door swings inward.

What I don’t expect is one of the club’s bodyguards blocking my way inside. “No going in, buddy.”

“What? Why the hell not?” I sidestep him but he blocks my way again.

“Carl says you can’t come in.”

“There must be a mix-up somewhere.” I swallow hard. “Johnny said we’d discuss, said I should come—”

The door opens wider. Carl’s standing there, his face dark with anger. “What did you do, boy? Johnny was trying to look out for you, set you back on the right path, but it’s already too late for you, isn’t it?”

I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. “He told me—”

“You brought the goddamn cops down on us. You’d daddy’s dead. Jake Devlin is dead and you killed him. Didn’t you, you little shit?”

I step back, the words a blow to my gut. I can’t breathe. “My dad? The hell you’re talking about.”

“You’re a coward,” he says, “a murderer and a snitch.” Carl jabs a thick finger at me. “And as if that wasn’t enough, you told the cops to come find you here. You thought this was kindergarten? You thought we just f**k around here? You’re dead, ass**le.”

“What...?” I can’t process any of this. Dad’s dead? Bigger than life Dad, with the pain and fear and the good memories of my early childhood and... All gone. Erased. When? How did that happen?

Three forms rise from the dark bowels of the club, run up the steps and grab me. They haul me away. I don’t even hear my duffel hit the ground.

***

I’m dragged into a back alley, kicking and snarling. I’m like a wild animal, all instinct and blind anger, fueled by panic. I manage to strike one of the guys in the stomach and he lets go of me, but another steps in and grabs my hair, pulling my head back.

My balance isn’t good with one of my eyes swollen shut and with my head drawn back like that. The only thing keeping me upright is the third man’s hold on my arm.

“You exposed us,” the guy behind me hisses. “You’ll pay for it.”

A fist to my kidneys startles a cry from me. The pain takes my breath away, a spear of fire shooting up my spine.

My hair is released and I fall to my knees, grunting in agony. Blows start falling on my head and back, splintering my thoughts.

I have to fight back; it’s all there is. Fight back until I can’t any more. But there’re three of them and I’m still numb with shock and pain.

Dad is dead.

Fuck.

I block the next blow and I manage to kick at the man nearest to me, so I can rise to my feet. I shove one of them away, and turn to face the others.

Then I see the glint of a blade, and I know this is it: run or die. I punch one of them in the face and turn to deal with the f**ker holding the knife. I knock it out of his hand, twisting, and pain lances across my lower back to my left hip—the burning kiss of metal. Another knife. Bastard sliced me from behind.

Can’t be too bad. I’m still standing. Though that doesn’t mean much.

Broken thoughts. Nothing makes sense.

I twist and bring my fist down on the man’s arm, shake off a hand that grabs my shoulder, and run.

Adrenaline gives me speed and blots out the pain. I race down the alley, turn onto a broad street and bolt down another. I can hear footsteps pounding behind me, and I force my legs to move faster. I sprint down another street, my heart booming. A dull roar fills my ears.

Have to hide. Find a dark hole to sink into and lick my wounds.

I duck into alleys, desperately looking for a suitable place, feeling the goons closing in, breathing down my neck.

Pain starts to pierce my adrenaline haze and blood courses down my lower back and leg in a hot trail. As much as I fight it, I’m slowing down. I have to hide until they pass me by.

Stumbling into yet another alley, I notice an open door. The kitchen of a restaurant, judging from the smell of fried fish. I duck inside, slipping between metal counters heaped with bowls and chopped vegetables. An Asian woman with a cook’s white hat and apron turns around and opens her mouth to speak or yell, but I lift my hands, trying to look harmless.

“Just passing through,” I whisper. “I mean no trouble.”

She doesn’t scream, so I take that as permission and slink to the back of the kitchen and into the restaurant. A few tables are occupied, so I do my best to slip by unnoticed.

A shout lets me know I’ve failed. Not hard when I’m leaving a bloody trail behind. I make for the door and stagger outside.

Where can I go?

The street swims in my eyes. I’m lightheaded from blood loss and I can’t think. So I let my feet take me wherever they want, letting my mind go empty as I set off running once more.

Chapter Nineteen

Audrey

Evening is falling. I pace the length of Zane’s living room. Tessa and Zane are sitting on the sofa where I lay down with Ash just yesterday.

No word from the police since midday. No word from Ash. Zane called the homeless shelters, and when that brought no results, he went out to look for him on the streets. He came back empty-handed, and we’ve been sitting here, drinking coffee and going over what we know again and again.

“I couldn’t find him,” Zane says for the millionth time. He’s pale and he’s chewed on his lip so much he broke the skin. “Checked every place he’s frequented before, on State Street and the back alleys. Nobody has seen him.”

Tessa reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “You did all you could.”

“It’s cold out there. If he’s on the street, he’ll die.”

My chest aches. I rub my breastbone, stopping to catch my breath. I’m so damn scared for Ash.

I pace back to the window, looking out into the gray afternoon. Dylan dropped by earlier, asking how he could help, but he looked horrible, pale as if sick, and we sent him away. Tessa won’t tell me what’s going on with him, but from the few things he said, it has to do with his little brother.

I can’t summon enough concern, not when I’m so worried about Ash.

“Ash wouldn’t kill his old man,” Zane is saying. “This is bullshit.”

“He didn’t do it,” Tessa says. “I know he didn’t.”

But it looks like Ash is a person of interest because he was the last person seen leaving the house just a few days ago. The only reason we know this much is because Zane has a buddy in the force and pressed him for info.

I didn’t known Ash went back home. A neighbor saw him slip inside through the window, and then leave a while later through the main door.

Suspect behavior.

But that cinches it for me. It’s one thing imagining Ash killing his father in self-defense; quite another believing he went back in secret to commit murder.

I can’t believe it. Not for a second.

And now I know why he was fighting—he needs money to live because he’s homeless and without support—it has all fallen into place. Ash isn’t violent. He isn’t a trouble-maker. He’s a good person. Someone worth standing up for.

“He must have gone back to get his cell,” Zane says and waves the phone. “He didn’t have it before I left for the Christmas holidays. His cell and his wallet, some clothes. Erin said he had a duffel bag. That’s why he went back. Not to kill anyone.”

“You should tell the police that,” I say.

“I did.”

Tessa rubs her face. “Who found his dad’s body?”

“His cleaning was calling for days and he wouldn’t pick up, so she went to check on him and called the cops.” Zane scowls. “I wonder if she knew what sort of scumbag he was.”

My cell rings then and I dive to grab it from the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Ms. Morrison? This is Officer Nielsen, calling to see if you have heard from Asher Devlin.”

“You haven’t found him yet?” Fear crushes me.

“No. We were hoping you could give us a lead as to where he might have gone.”