Because suddenly, Sarah’s broken arm wasn’t the whole story. It was the opening act.
If collectors had shown up while Sarah was on the floor… while Meera was alone…
I didn’t finish that thought. I didn’t let it exist all the way, because it made my hands tremble.
Meera’s “wrong number” hadn’t just summoned help. It had pulled her out of the path of something worse.
Morrison returned, face tighter than before. “You were right about Holloway,” he said. “He’s not just violent. He’s under investigation for draining his mother’s retirement account. Fifteen grand.”
I exhaled through my nose. “So he steals from his own mom. Breaks his girlfriend’s arm. Endangers a kid.”
Morrison glanced toward Meera, sleeping. “And now he’s missing.”
I tilted my head. “Missing?”
“We put out a pickup,” Morrison said. “But he’s not home, not with his usual associates.”
Reaper’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then looked at me.
“Found him,” he said simply.
Morrison’s eyes snapped up. “Who found him?”
Reaper didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Morrison’s expression went sharp. “Thomas, don’t you dare…”
I raised a hand. “No one touches him. I said find him, not fix him. We’re not adding bodies to this story.”
Morrison watched me like he was trying to decide if he believed me.
Then Reaper’s phone buzzed again. He read, then nodded. “He’s behind Ly’s. Begging. Collectors are there.”
Morrison swore under his breath and moved fast. “I’m calling units.”
I leaned down to Meera, whose face was finally relaxed in sleep.
“Stay,” I whispered to her, like she could hear. “Just stay a kid for a little while.”
Then I stood.
“Reaper,” I said. “You stay here. Guard the kid.”
Reaper nodded. “With my life.”
Chains and Gunner followed me out.
Not to play vigilante. Not to throw fists in alleys for fun.
But because if those collectors got spooked and decided to “send a message” to Sarah through her kid, I wasn’t letting that happen.
Not ever.
Chapter 5: The Alley Behind Ly’s
Ly’s sat like a stain on the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like an insect trapped in light. We didn’t roll up loud. We parked out of sight and walked.
The alley behind the building smelled like old beer and wet paper.
Raven Holloway was there, exactly as pathetic as you’d imagine: hunched, twitchy, sweating through a hoodie despite the cold. His eyes jumped like they were being chased.
Two men stood with him. Not our guys. Not police.
