Chapter 115: Traps And Tears
Addicus pushed past the hallucination, refusing to acknowledge Samantha’s ghost. He dressed quickly, his mind churning—Sharon’s resistance, Will’s doubts, and now this appointment he couldn’t miss. The house felt alive, its walls whispering secrets. He grabbed his coat, but the shadow’s memory lingered, a warning he couldn’t shake.
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Martha entered Sharon’s room, the air thick with despair. Sharon lay on the bed, naked, her body a map of bruises—red welts, purpled marks, blood crusted at her lip. Her eyes were open but distant, staring at nothing. Martha’s heart cracked. “My dear girl,” she whispered, voice trembling, “what’s he done to you?”
She hurried to Sharon’s side, fumbling with the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. The knots were tight, cutting into swollen skin. “Hold on,” Martha said, freeing her. Sharon’s arms fell limp, too weak to move. “Let me get water.”
As Martha turned, Sharon’s hand shot out, grabbing hers. She pulled Martha close, wrapping her arms around her like a lifeline. Her grip was desperate, trembling, as if solitude might swallow her whole. Martha sank to the bed, cradling her.
“It’s okay, my child,” she soothed, stroking Sharon’s matted hair. “I’m here.”
Sharon’s resolve shattered. Sobs tore from her, raw and anguished, shaking her frail frame. “He… raped me,” she choked, voice breaking. “Again.”
Martha’s breath caught, horror flooding her. She’d known Addicus was cruel, but this—her hands tightened around Sharon, helpless rage burning. “It’s gonna be alright,” she lied, because what else could she say?
"You’re not alone.”
Sharon clung tighter, tears soaking Martha’s blouse. The room was a cage—bare walls, a single bulb flickering, the distant hum of a radio playing Every Breath You Take. Martha rocked her gently, but her mind raced. Addicus had ordered her to tend to Sharon, but why? Trust, or a trap? She’d seen what he did to those who crossed him—bodies gone, names erased. Yet Sharon’s pain stirred something in her, a flicker of defiance she hadn’t felt in years.
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One Week Later...
Jinx’s apartment was a fortress of shadows, its windows boarded, the air heavy with rum and gun oil. She kicked the door shut, her helmet clattering onto the kitchen table. Another night hunting Peter Cooper, another failure. Since their escape in the alley, he and Chris had vanished, leaving no trace. She’d dug up Peter’s address, but his house was empty, a mocking shell.
Pouring rum into a chipped glass, she left her pistols by the sink and crossed to her room. A corkboard loomed on the wall, plastered with photos of Peter and Chris, their lives dissected in scribbled notes—addresses, habits, allies. “Why’re you nesting, little birdie?” she muttered to Peter’s picture, his eyes staring back, defiant.
Her instincts flared. The room felt wrong. A book was tilted, a drawer slightly ajar—details she’d never miss. She wasn’t alone. She lunged for her dresser, yanking open the gun drawer. Empty.
“Looking for these?” Peter’s voice cut through the dark.
Jinx froze. He sat across the room, her own revolvers in his hands, his face half-hidden in shadow. Chris leaned by the door, flipping on the light. The bulb buzzed, exposing them—Peter calm, Chris smirking, both aiming at her.
“How’d you get in?” Jinx asked, her voice steady despite the trap.
“That’s our secret,” Chris said, gesturing to a chair. “Sit.”
Jinx eased into the seat, her hand brushing its underside for her hidden knife. Gone. “Don’t bother,” Peter said. “We cleaned this place out.”
“You’d be surprised how many weapons I’ve got stashed,” she warned, eyes darting for an exit.
Peter held up a file, her life inked on its pages. “Joanne Reeves,” he read. “Locked up at fourteen for killing your stepfather with a needle. Anger issues, they said. Escaped the asylum, joined a terrorist cell, trained as an assassin. When the group fell, you vanished, freelancing for scum like Addicus. Sound right?”
“You missed the part where I killed twelve inmates,” Jinx said, her smile cold.
“Why’re you here?” she asked. “To kill me?”
Peter leaned forward, holstering one gun. “I could. But you’re worth more alive. I’ve got a job—something big—and your skills could help. Work for me.”
Jinx laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You think I’d flip?”
“I think you’re smart,” Peter said. “Addicus will burn you when he’s done. I’m offering a way out.”
She studied him, calculating. He was good—better than she’d expected. But trust was a blade she didn’t wield lightly.