She doesn’t look convinced. “Happy would also mean that we aren’t starved and homeless.”

“I’ve got money and a car. We can drive around until we figure it out.” It’s obvious Bella isn’t a number one fan of this place, with the crease that forms between her brows every time the house creaks or whenever she looks at the patches on the walls.

“We can’t just live out of a car, Mickey. What about kids?”

I pause, checking that I heard her correctly. “You want to have kids with me?” I smile.

She flutters her eyelashes and looks anywhere but at me. “What? No. I mean—um, it’s just not the right type of living conditions.”

“Mmhmm.” I’ll pester her about that later. For now, we need to get the fuck out of here before someone figures out these two guys are dead.

Whoever the fuck they are.

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Chapter 22

ISABELLA

Roman’s whistling.

Why is he whistling?

He’s acting like setting fire to two mutilated bodies is an everyday chore for him. It must be because he didn’t hesitate when he took a photo of their IDs, stole their cash and a couple of coupon cards, and then doused gasoline on it along with the rest of them. All while whistling.

I can still feel the cold barrel pressed against my temple and how the man’s hand felt wrapped around my neck. The safety went off a second before the other man went down. Click. The sound plays on repeat.

When Mickey pulled the trigger, I thought I was done for. I was certain the man would call an eye for an eye and take my life.

I guess I should count myself lucky that the person who found me in the bathroom had some qualms about hitting women because he was gentle until he threw me aside.

Less aggressive than I’m used to is more accurate.

The moment he stepped into the bathroom, I froze. My drive to fight disappeared, and the only thing I did was whimper when he pointed the gun at me. I thought I was better than that. Stronger.

It’s mortifying, and both settling and unsettling that Roman can be so calm while committing several felonies after almost dying. It almost makes me feel like I’m the crazy one for being upset by all the gore I’ve witnessed in the past seventy-two hours.

Oh, lord. Has it only been three days?

I should be more upset by the fact I’m becoming the old me who followed him along and jumped when he said jump. But at least I’m sort of fighting him at every turn, and that must count for something.

I hope.

Even though I’m amped up, I bite back a wince with every step I take around the house. I’m now intimately aware of what everyone meant about not being able to walk after. It feels like my insides have been rearranged, and my poor lady parts are throbbing in a good and awful way. I both never want it to happen again, and simultaneously want it to happen on a daily basis.

The whistling stops, replaced by humming. Dear Lord, now he’s singing “Another One Bites the Dust” while washing up in the bathroom. How is he not more stressed about the situation? More freakishly intimidating men might come. Who knows, maybe next time we won’t be so lucky.

I’m moving faster than I have in my life, packing the essential clothing into bags, food, blankets, towels, basic utensils—Christ, what else would we need when we’re running from outlaws and the law?

Running back inside after stuffing more things into the trunk, I find a freshly washed Roman pulling a t-shirt over his head.

Momentarily off balance by the sliver of abs, my eyes focus on the splash of red on his arm, spanning a centimeter. “You’re bleeding,” I gasp. “He cut you? Let me check.”

He wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing. “That’s why you shouldn’t roll around on the ground. You get splinters.” He grins.

I narrow my eyes at him, then glance out the front door and to the car. “I’ve packed.”

He looks at me, sticks his head into the room, and says, “Not well enough.”

First whistling, now he’s smirking? Is this what a sociopath does?

“What do you mean?” Following him into the room, I start prattling, “I’ve got food, water, some clothes—"

“You forgot Mr. Mickey Mouse.” He holds up the doll my mother gave me and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I can’t believe you were going to forget about me, Isabella,” he mimics Mickey Mouse.

I snatch Mr. Mouse from Roman and hug the toy to my chest. “Well, I didn’t say I was ready to go.”

Roman hums in disbelief, grabs a duffle bag from the closet, and starts dropping all the hair accessories he bought inside.

“Those aren’t essentials.”

Without looking at me, he says, “You’ve had your turn packing. Now it’s my turn, and you didn’t have me breathing down your neck while you did it.”

I can’t believe we’re having this conversation after I almost died.

I huff like a petulant child and storm back into the living room, doing a once-over of everything we could possibly need.

Oh wait, I forgot the first-aid kit and toiletries.

Five minutes later, I’m stepping into the car while Roman slaps the roof, hooting, “Road trip, baby.”

I’m not sure whether I should be upset or happy about leaving the horror house. I guess I’m pleased that I’m no longer at risk of needing to cultivate my own food, but I don’t like that I’m only leaving out of fear of being murdered—a worse fate than dying from starvation.

Roman’s expert fingers massage my neck while he drives, and his calm—not calm, normal—exterior is the whole reason I’m not hugging my knees, repeating the moment in my head, over and over. The click of the safety, the bang of the trigger, the terror in Mickey’s eyes, because he thought it too.

He thought I was going to die.

Yet, it’s been half an hour, and he’s strumming the wheel, screaming along to whatever plays on the radio as if there wasn’t a threat to our lives an hour ago.

Would I stay with Mickey if I constantly had to look over my shoulder to check if a gun is pointed at me? I mean, it’s only been this one time; he’s never placed me in danger like that before. He even left me for years so I wouldn’t have to deal with the police. He’s been a pretty big advocate of protecting me from danger.

Plus, I heard the conversation Mickey had with that man, and I believe Roman when he said he didn’t know who the man was. Which begs the question, how did they find us to begin with?

I’ve seen Mickey on the phone several times since those guys turned up. Could whoever he’s texting have something to do with it? Wait, who is he even texting? Prison buddies?

Turning down the stereo’s volume, I yell, “Where are we going?”

He drops his hand to my thigh and squeezes. “To get some extra cash.”

I throw my hands up. “That raises more questions while simultaneously leaving my first question unanswered.”

He grins at me. “You turn me on when you use big words.”

“Everything turns you on.”

“Only when it comes to you.” He winks.

“Back to my question. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I roll my eyes. “The last time you surprised me, you committed double homicide.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll outdo myself this time. Make it triple.” He taps my thigh. “Actually, that’s standard. Make it quadruple, and then we’re talking.”

“What do you mean, standard? Have you committed triple homicide?”

He just grins. Grins. He’s meant to be reassuring me. None of his answers calm me in the slightest. How many people has he killed? Do I even want to know the answer to that?

“Mickey,” I say cautiously. “What do you mean by standard?”

He turns to me and blows me a kiss like we’re love-drunk teenagers, then goes back to belting it out to the music, leaving me stewing. I promised myself I would start asking questions, but maybe I’ll leave that to rest. Plausible deniability is in my best interest this time.