Chapter 22 Emma #2
“At the cost of progress,” Vernick says calmly. “Change is hard. But stagnation is worse. These new developments would revitalize the east side—”
“We don’t need revitalizing,” someone else interrupts. “We need to be left alone!”
“Order,” Mayor Roberts says weakly, but no one’s listening.
Vernick holds up his hands. “I understand your concerns. But Carolina Properties has made very fair offers to homeowners. More than fair. They’re not trying to force anyone out.
There’s nothing nefarious going on here.
They’re simply a development company trying to build Stoneheart into the kind of town that gets noticed on a map. ”
“Bullshit!”
Bones stands up and the room goes pin-drop silent.
He doesn’t shout, but the way his voice cuts the air, it might as well be a gunshot.
“Bull. Shit,” Bones says again, firmer this time.
Everyone is staring at him, but it’s like he doesn’t notice.
He gives me this tiny, lopsided grin, before he squares his shoulders and strides to the microphone at the center aisle.
He passes Vernick, who tries for a handshake.
Bones ignores it, steps right up to the mic, and looks out at the crowd.
“My name is Nick Holt. But people who know me call me Bones. I grew up here, bounced around between foster care and Stoneheart for most of it. I have lived on the east side. I know exactly what these neighborhoods actually mean to the people in this room.” He looks dead at Vernick.
“And I know a shell company when I see one, which is what Carolina Properties is.”
Bones pulls out his phone, taps something, and the image projects onto the screen behind the council table—a corporate structure chart.
“Carolina Properties Group,” Bones says, his voice carrying clearly.
“Registered business, looks legitimate. But if you follow the ownership structure—” He swipes, and the chart expands.
“Carolina Properties is owned by Piedmont Development Partners. Which is owned by Southeast Regional Investments. Which is owned—after a few more shell companies—by Summit Development.”
The room erupts in gasps and chatter.
“The same Summit Development that tried to muscle into Stoneheart last year,” Bones continues over the noise. “The same one that burned Devil’s Bar. The same one that’s currently under federal investigation for fraud and racketeering.”
Vernick’s smile freezes as the crowd erupts, shouting questions, accusations. Mayor Roberts bangs his gavel uselessly. Vernick looks toward the back of the room like he’s seeking some sort of instruction. And when I follow his gaze, my blood runs cold.
Him.
Standing near the exit, half-hidden by the crowd. Dark hair, medium build, wearing a leather jacket. He’s watching the stage with cold calculation, and when his eyes sweep across the room, they land on me.
And I know him.
Not his name. But his face. His hands.
The van. The zip ties. The warehouse where they held me.
He was one of them.
My breath stops. The room tilts. I try to stand but my crutches clatter to the floor and suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at the man who held me prisoner.
He’s here. Right here. With Vernick.
My vision tunnels. I hear Dad saying my name, feel hands on my shoulders, but all I can see is that man’s face. All I can feel is the zip ties cutting into my wrists, the fear, the helplessness.
Every promise I made—to stay, to fight, to be brave—dissolves like smoke.
I have to get out.
I lurch to my feet, leaving the crutches, limping in a rush toward the side exit. People are staring but I don’t care. I have to get away from him, from this room, from the memory of cold concrete, a gag in my mouth, and thinking I was going to die.
“Emma!”
Bones’s voice. But I don’t stop. Can’t stop. I shove through the exit door into the cool night air, hopping across the parking lot. My surgical boot drags, pain shooting through my ankle with each step, but I don’t really feel it. I just need to be away, need to—
There’s a car with the door unlocked—someone’s old sedan. I yank the door open and climb in, locking it behind me. My hands shake as I dig through the center console. Keys. Please let there be keys.
Nothing.
I look up and see Bones coming through the exit, scanning the parking lot. I duck down below the window line, holding my breath.
His footsteps get closer. Stop. I hear him talking—probably on the phone with Dad or Tank—but I can’t make out the words.
Then his footsteps fade.
I wait until I can’t hear anything, then carefully peek up. Bones is heading back toward the town hall, phone to his ear.
This is my chance.
I shift back and look under the steering column. Thank god it’s an older model—no fancy anti-theft systems. I pull down the plastic covering and find the wiring harness. Red for battery, brown for ignition, yellow for starter.
Duck taught me this when I was fifteen. “Just in case,” he’d said. “You never know when you might need to get somewhere fast.”
My hands shake as I strip the wire casings with my teeth—not ideal but I don’t have tools. I twist the red and brown wires together and the dashboard lights up. Then I touch the yellow wire to the connection.
The engine sputters to life.
I throw the car into gear and pull out of the parking spot as carefully as I can, trying not to draw attention. The town hall exit is on the other side, so I go the opposite direction, taking the back road that circles around toward the clubhouse.
My ankle throbs. I shouldn’t be driving. Definitely shouldn’t be driving a stolen car. But all I can think about is that man’s face, his cold eyes finding mine across the room.
Did they know I’d be there? Did they send him to watch me—to remind me what they can do?
The road blurs through tears I didn’t realize I was crying. I blink them away, focusing on the familiar route. Left at the old gas station. Right past the salvage yard. Then the narrow dirt road that leads into the woods behind the clubhouse property.
I know exactly where I’m going.
The hickory grove.
It’s been here forever. A cluster of old hickory trees about a quarter mile into the woods behind the clubhouse, with one massive oak in the center that split decades ago from lightning. The split created a hollow at the base, just big enough for a teenager to crawl into and disappear.
I found it when I was thirteen, the first time Dad and I had a screaming fight about me going to the dance academy. I’d run from the clubhouse, crashed through the woods, and found this place. My secret spot. The only place that felt like mine in a world where everything else belonged to the club.
I park the stolen car at the edge of the dirt road and get out. Someone will find it eventually. Right now I just need to get to the tree.
The walk is brutal. Every step on my surgical boot sends pain shooting up my leg. The physical therapist would kill me if she could see this. But I keep moving, using tree trunks for support, hopping when I have to, until I see the familiar shape of the split oak against the darker woods.
I wedge myself into the hollow, half-collapsing into the sharp smell of dry leaves, remembering how it felt those nights I hid out here, refusing to come home until Dad gave up and sent Bones or Lee looking for me.
The pain in my leg is white hot now. I can’t take it anymore, can’t even pretend I’m following recovery protocol.
I dig my fingers under the hard plastic rim of the surgical boot and yank.
The Velcro rip sounds like a scream in the muffled woods.
I want to join in, scream at the pain, but instead I grit my teeth and keep going, peeling the brace off inch by inch, feeling the sharp shift in my joint and the dull fire along my heel.
When it’s finally free, I toss the boot into the underbrush, where it thumps and settles, a dark lopsided turtle among the leaves.
I sit there, sweaty and trembling, and pull my knees up to my chest.
The bark is rough against my back. The smell of damp earth and old wood surrounds me. And for the first time since I saw that man’s face, I can breathe.
Sort of.
My hands are still shaking. My heart won’t stop racing. Every shadow looks like a threat.
He was there. At the town meeting. Like he had every right to still exist.
Which means Summit knows exactly where I am. What I’m doing. They’re watching.
And if they’re watching, they can grab me again.
The thought makes my stomach heave. I press my forehead to my knees and try to breathe through the panic.
Bones will find me. He always finds me.
But right now, in this moment, I need to be alone. Need to fall apart in private before I can pull myself back together.
In the distance, I hear bikes. The rumble of engines getting closer, then fading.
They’re looking for me.
Part of me wants to call out, let them find me, let Bones wrap me up and tell me everything’s OK.
But it’s not OK. That man is out there. Summit is still coming for us. And I just proved I’m still the scared girl I always was, running at the first sign of danger.
So much for belonging here. So much for being brave.
I close my eyes and wait in the dark, listening to the distant sound of engines, and wonder how long it’ll take before Bones is crouching in front of me.