Mercer
"Hey, Sugar."
Something sardistic rumbled in my gut as I picked off the shredded school bag still hanging off her little seat. My gaze flicked over to the claw marks gouged into the desk.
It wasn't difficult to guess what had happened.
"Cellphone's still in there," Quinlan said with deadly softness.
Yes. It was. Which meant the fucking tracker was useless. The blue dot that was the cellphone we'd purchased her had been blinking in the same spot all day, and it was now seven in the evening.
Where the hell was she? This wasn't like her.
Jericho gripped my collar and wrenched me into him. "If anything happens to her—"
"Fuck off," I snapped. "Just because you developed a conscience overnight doesn't make you a saint."
Quinn, ever the pacifist, came in between us before Jericho crushed my windpipe. "Maybe she bolted. I mean… would you blame her?"
