Death's Rulebook

Chapter 12: The gun barrel

"We're here," Mason announced, shutting off the Ford's engine. I glared around the parking lot, overlooking the Lincoln Center for Performing Arts. It dawned on me, as we stepped out of the car to cross the street, that I'd never actually been to the Upper East Side.

"Wow," I forced out light-heartedly, as Mason and I neared the stop light. "I suddenly have a massive urge to cry in poor."

Crossing the road, we found ourselves treading onto the patterned walkway, two disheveled figures in a sea of young bodies, milling about, like ants all over a stone dart board. As we passed building after building, my eyes followed the gargantuan shadows they cast to the fountain in the center of the plaza. Revson, the plaque resting under pumping jets of water read. A couple of college kids were standing near it, laughing and talking amongst themselves. I found myself wishing I'd taken a shower and changed before coming here.

"Yep, told you your boy was loaded," Mason said, his eyes trained on a blonde girl in the group. His eyebrows shot up at the Nirvana hoodie peeking through her lavender coat.

"Still can't believe he goes to frickin' Juilliard."

The news came as yet another blow to my already fragile heart. After Mason and I wasted the entire morning freaking out, and stalking Logan's demolished workplace, we were faced with the possibility that we wouldn't find him. Not on our own at least.

"We are not calling Kevin," Mason had proclaimed decisively, leaning against a street light. We stood across the street overlooking the charred ruins of club Paradise, frustrated and tired, ready to scream at the top of our lungs. "The last thing I need are his self-righteous punishments. I can't afford any more of those."

It was hard to miss the way his amber eyes lingered on his left wrist, tucked in the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"I didn't say that we should call him. I said that we should call help."

I had never been so thankful for the fact that I'd memorized some of the emergency contacts Kevin kept in his office desk. We called several people, both in the fire department and the paramedics involved in the 'Paradise' fiasco last night. No one was willing to help, not without Kevin's express request, especially when they learned Mason was involved.

"What?" I shrugged at him after I'd hung up the phone. That was the fourth person we'd called in the last hour. "You don't exactly have a good track record with any of Kevin's contacts. And at this point, they know that the only reason I would call them is to get you out of trouble."

Mason huffed, pouting his lips.

"Whatever," he proclaimed with deceptive indifference. My eyes immediately darted to his shaky fingers tapping against his leg.

I sighed and glanced at the phone's clock.

12:26 pm. Exactly three hours before Adrianne Litchfield was set to die.

-We're running out of time.

I set to calling again, and we finally caught a break. After a lot of back and forth a contact Kevin had in the Brooklyn Heights Police Department finally agreed to help. Though Sargent Frank (Grumpy Frank, to Lilian and Mason) wasn't too keen on doing me favors without the Almighty's blessings, he'd agreed to give me at least some info about Logan. A painful, hour and a half long trip to Manhattan later and we found ourselves heading toward the student housing complex near Julliard's campus.