Page 74 of Mercenary

She’s alive.

She’s found me.

“Oh my God, Kylie. I’ve been looking for you,” I manage.

“Yeah, I know.” She rolls and folds her legs beneath her, poised on the bed yet cast in shadows.

Not quite real. Surreal.

Reaching over, I fumble for the light switch.

“Keep it off,” she orders, her voice strained. “Get up. We’ve got to go.”

I climb onto my knees, then, overcome by emotion, draw her into a hug.

She stiffens within my arms, resisting me along with the comfort only a sister can offer. Until her body softens within my embrace. Then I’m tugged into her so damn tightly, I think my ribs might crack.

She’s strong and just as fit as the last time I saw her. Like running a 3K race is part of her morning workout. But who knows, right? It’s not like I saw much of her in the days leading up to her disappearance.

“What the heck is going on, Kylie? Do you want to explain to me why the mob is after you?” And quite possibly . . . Declan?

Kylie pushes me away and climbs off the bed. I scamper after her, not for a second letting her vanish again. Emotionally or otherwise. But she moves into the faint light as I’m about to insist she answer me.

It’s like a stranger’s standing before me.

“Your hair’s red?” I gasp. Not a delicate auburn shade but bright, clown-nose red. She’s cut it short, with wisps curling across her cheekbones and long bangs covering her forehead. The color makes her face seem pale. Accentuating the dark circles around her eyes. Dark like her lipstick, an in-your-face black shade. Kylie doesn’t even like wearing lipstick.

My gaze drops to her black laced combat boots, which she’s paired with stockings that look like they’ve been on the losing side of a Freddy Krueger encounter. Aside from the runs, there’s plenty of peekaboo thigh on display—her skirt is that short. To top it all off, her muscle T-shirt has a Rolling Stones applique on it, the cover to their album Forty Licks. It’s hard to miss that tongue tightly pulled across her ample chest. Our love of music—her classic rock/punk, me country—is the only familiar thing left of my sister. Holy hell. Quite the goth-rocker-gone-wild ensemble for someone who hates to stand out.

I frown. “What’s up with the outfit?”

“Hurry and get dressed.”

She’s always been a bossy older sister. But I deserve answers. “Where have you been? The trailer’s been torched, everything is gone. No one, not even Sylvia, had any idea where you disappeared to.”

“You shouldn’t have gone back,” she softly replies with a shake of her head.

“No, I discovered that the hard way.” I stare at her. My sister. Who’s clueless to the hell that’s broken out around me.

The man I’ve drugged.

Yeah, I’m still shaken and as angry as I’ve ever been. Frightened, too. Hurt, even more so. But I’m feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction knowing how furious he’ll be when the roofie wears off.

A brave act. But everyone has a boiling point. I’m tired, tired of the not knowing, of being dropped off and forgotten, dragged around and misled, kept in the dark about so many things. My steadfast belief in the people around me and in the idea that at the core of each of us lies a common decency, a humanity, and an empathy toward others is slowly shredding away. I search the face of the one person whose soul I thought I could see and wonder if I really know her at all.

“You didn’t meet me at the Pitt that night,” I murmur, desperately trying to temper the accusation within my tone.

“I couldn’t,” she chokes out.

“Sure, you told me to move on with my life, to head to San Diego in case that you didn’t show. But the funny thing is, I believed wholeheartedly that you would return.”

“God, I’m so sorry, Madelyn. You don’t understand . . .”

“Explain it to me. It’s been four months, Kylie. You disconnected your phone. You never once contacted me at college. It’s like you’ve forgotten all about me.” Her face grows paler, and I immediately regret my outburst. “We’ll get through this together. Whatever you’ve done to piss off the mob—because that’s what this is about, right?—I’ll help you figure it out.”

“DiCapitano is the least of my problems. Or was, until you came back.”

My eyes widen. Least of her problems?