Page 8 of Burn the World Down

He’ll always help you out, Georgie. What he’s turning into…he’s enough to scare the biggest bad away.

Maybe Elliot had some subconscious inkling of his impending death in a firefight.

That had been the last time I’d spoken with my brother. Grief closed my throat. He’d died a hero in an ambush, saving several soldiers.

Then Viv had moved to Las Vegas to chase her dreams.

She’d taken one suitcase, her old, beaten-up car, three hundred dollars, and a head full of dreams.

Then, the life I’d once had was completely over. No family, no crush, no dream job.

I rose and went into the tiny bathroom to splash some water on my face. I ignored the mirror. I didn’t need to see my healing black eye. The doctor had said I was lucky I hadn’t lost any vision.

Back in the room, I grabbed a bag of chips I’d bought earlier and ripped it open. I had to get some calories into me.

My cellphone pinged and vibrated on the table.

Every muscle in my body went taut. I fought not to throw up the Diet Coke I’d drunk.

Woodenly, I reached for the phone. I had no friends anymore. I’d sold our house in Elk Falls. It was a funny thing when all your family died; a lot of your friends drifted away. I’d run into people on the street and they were awkward, didn’tknow what to say. I realized that my grief was a drag on their lives.

These days, only one person messaged me.

It didn’t matter that I repeatedly changed my number. He still found me.

Steeling myself, I pressed my lips together and thumbed the screen. I’d learned that you had to face the shit life threw at you head on. Ignoring it, avoiding it, or trying to dodge it, none of that worked.

Nothing made it better anyway.

I clicked on the message.

The text was just an image.

Of my now-dead sister.

Bile filled my mouth. In it, she was kneeling and strung out, no doubt high on blow, with her mascara smudged. A naked man stood beside her, only his thigh and hard cock visible, her fingers wrapped around him.

I pressed delete.

Not that it would help. It wouldn’t erase the image from my head, and the man who’d killed her would keep sending the images and videos.

He loved to torment me.

He was a sick fuck—rich, powerful, and untouchable. My hands curled into fists, my knuckles white.

He’d lured Viv with promises of a singing contract, and a gig in his hot Las Vegas club. He’d romanced her with flowers and dinners and expensive gifts. He’d gotten her addicted to cocaine, then started sharing her around with his friends, employees, business associates. He’d beaten her, abused her, and trafficked her.

Helplessness welled, but so did my rage.

Rage was so much better than sadness, grief, or helplessness.

I grabbed onto it.

I’d come here to Las Vegas to save Viv. Instead, I’d gotten the shit beaten out of me, and now Viv was dead.

Now, I only had one thing to live for.

Taking down Dean Snyder.