Page 96 of Wasted

He ignored the discomfort and trudged up the incline out of the ditch. Lucky for him it was lined with several inches of snow mingled with the dead weeds. Provided a nice cushion for a sudden tumble.

As he reached the shoulder by the freeway, his gaze fell on his bike.

An oath spilled from his mouth.

The front forks and axle were twisted and smashed. Nothing a good repair shop couldn’t fix, but it would cost a pretty penny.

Where was the tire? He stepped back to the ditch and looked down. There. The tire lay at the bottom of the incline on the snow.

Anger simmered as he limped closer to his bike, ignoring the traffic that sped by him. With how badly damaged the bike was, it’d be impossible to prove now, but there was no doubt in his mind—someone had tampered with his bike.

He kept his bike in good condition. And he knew how to handle the standard issues that could cause a front wheel wobble like that. None of the usual fixes had worked. Because the whole tire was suddenly loose.

Someone had to have rigged that. Probably loosened the bolts just enough so he wouldn’t notice a problem until he’d been riding for fifteen minutes on the freeway.

This wasn’t just a prank. Somebody wanted to kill him.

And if they wanted to kill him, they probably wanted to do the same to Victoria.

The anger burst into an all-out flame in his chest as he ripped off his glove and unzipped the front jacket pocket where he’d stashed his phone. Good thing he hadn’t landed on his belly. He needed the phone to make three important calls. Victoria, tow truck, and then a rideshare so he could get the evidence against Clinton Glenn to the lieutenant.

If Glenn had sabotaged Cillian’s bike to keep him quiet, he was going to learn the hard way that Cillian wasn’t so easy to stop.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Victoria glanced at the time on her cell phone, then verified the time was correct with the clock on the wall in the lobby at Life Center. Nearly thirty minutes since Cillian had called, telling her to wait there with Sydney until he arrived. He’d said he would explain when he saw her.

Victoria would have asked questions, but the tension and urgency in his voice had given her enough of a reason to wait. Something was wrong. Very wrong, judging from the edge of anger and that protectiveness she’d come to recognize.

Was he in trouble? Had something happened since he’d phoned? Thirty minutes seemed a long time for him to take to get there, given the apparent serious nature of whatever had occurred.

She drew in a breath, trying to relax her tense muscles. Obsessing over the questions when she had no answers would do her no good. And neither would sitting in the uncomfortable chair that was doing her posture no favors.

She rose and walked across the empty room, her gaze dropping to her phone as she paused near the potted fern in the corner. Her thumb moved to the text messaging app and tapped. As if she needed another obsession to replace the first.

But no new messages awaited her. She opened the thread of texts with her father.

I plan to arrive at 6:00 Tuesday night to prepare your birthday dinner. Does that sound correct, or would you like me there earlier?

The text she had sent yesterday morning stared up at her. With no response.

Dad never waited that long to answer a text. Not a word since her arrest meant one thing—he was giving her the silent treatment. Far worse than an in-person lecture. He must be so disappointed in her, so ashamed.

She pressed her lips together and looked up, her gaze hitting the poster on the wall with the large image of a six-week-old baby in the womb. The baby was so dependent on her mother, on her parents for safety, love, and life itself.

Strange how that dynamic seemed to continue throughout all stages, taking on different forms and degrees as the children and parents aged.

“Is he here yet?”

Victoria turned toward Sydney as the girl returned from visiting the restroom. “No, not yet.” She glanced toward the front door.

Nothing but the gray light of the winter day greeted her study beyond the glass.

“Oh. My man is usually late, too.” The girl smiled as she plunked herself down into a chair. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”

Dismay tightened Victoria’s stomach, but her pulse skipped with something like pleasure at the same time. “Cillian doesn’t—” Could she honestly say he didn’t love her? He’d told her he did when they were teenagers. And he showed signs that, perhaps, he still did. She tried again. “Cillian isn’t my?—”