Scared to Kill (The Dead Speak Book 6) by Emmy Ellis

Author:Emmy Ellis [Ellis, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Langham rested a tad easier now The Boss had gone.

“You were chattering in my head,” Milton said. From the shake of his words, it sounded like a shudder rippled through him.

“Will you take this bloody blindfold off?” Oliver asked.

“Patience,” Milton said.

Someone placed a bottle of water in Langham’s hand.

Will it be safe to drink?

Langham laughed to cover his uneasiness. “I gather you heard him talking to you?”

“I fucking did. Creepy, man. But creepy or not, Hash Boy, here’s some water.” Milton’s movement displaced the thick air. “Hey, Talin, you want water, too? Oh, he’s asleep again. Jesus, they beat him good. And shit, stop speaking to me like that, Hash Boy.”

Hash Boy? Langham could only imagine Milton was talking to Oliver.

“Yeah, he’s definitely asleep,” Milton said. “And you asked how I know? Because his eyes are closed and I poked him. He didn’t move. Why do you ask?” Pause. “Yeah? All right.”

Langham’s blindfold was lifted, Milton close to his face, his finger to his mouth. Milton took Oliver’s off, too, then went behind their chairs. He undid the rope on Langham’s wrists.

Moving to Oliver, he said, “You look uncomfortable, like you need to use the toilet. Except the toilet’s in the yard. One false move, and I’ll shoot you then get The Boss back here.”

Langham glanced across at Oliver, who smiled, letting him know he had things in hand. Not knowing what was going on could have boiled Langham’s piss if he’d let it, but he trusted him.

Milton walked around to stand in front of them, giving an exaggerated wink. He jerked his head to the side and motioned for them to go through a door at the back of the room. One of the panels was broken, and the dark-brown paint on it had long since faded. Langham stood, his bones protesting after sitting for so long, and gave their surroundings a quick once-over.

The floor was relatively clear of debris, if a little mucky with dust from what he presumed was the street. Walls bare, the plaster filthy and cracked, had squares of a lighter shade where pictures had once hung there. An old wooden cabinet, scarred from years of use, stood drunkenly in the corner behind a man who sat strapped to a chair, out for the count.

Langham shook his head. The sight didn’t shock him—he’d seen far worse—but the knowledge the man had been beaten for information churned his stomach. He’d never understand criminals for as long as he lived. What drove them to act the way they did? And why the hell was Oliver helping Milton?

Sometimes, Langham wondered if he’d ever be as compassionate as his psychic aide. Whether he could open his mind, see the bigger picture, and not just as black and white, right or wrong.

Maybe working with Oliver he’d learn to be more tolerant and understanding as time went by.

They followed Milton through the doorway, Oliver behind Milton, Langham at the rear. The door led directly to a back yard—is that room

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