CHAPTER 193

FREDERICK

The Ghost was dead. It was the only thing I could think of as I staggered along on the dirt path beside the highway, hooking out my thumb as yet another wash of yellow headlights blinded me and sped past, blowing dust in my eyes.

“Bloody hell,” I groaned, struggling not to breathe too deeply as my lungs burned from the pain that had not stopped tearing at my sides and back.

I fisted the phone I had fished from the gray-eyed man’s shirt pockets firmly in my hand, the memory of the pike thrust firmly through his open mouth and shooting out the back of his head and chest as his bloodied eyes stared on sightless burned into my scalp.

“You’d done what any man in your position would do Frederick,” I whispered to myself, patting my matted hair and chest as I limped on, feeling like I had just stepped on a landmine and walked away without a scratch.

I hadn't realized it then, when I first left the scene of the accident and found myself at the penthouse, how awfully inconvenient it wa