Chapter 30
THIRTY
brAN
Something’s wrong.
I don’t have proof.
But something in my gut goes tight right around the time I’m asking a little girl in a velvet dress if she’s been good this year, and all I can think is she’s been gone too long.
Twiggy said two minutes. I’ve counted four.
“Santa, can my cat get a present?” the girl asks seriously. “She’s also been good. Mostly.”
I drag my eyes back to her, force a smile behind the beard.
“Of course,” I say. “What’s your cat’s name?”
“Princess Murderface,” she says.
I blink.
“That is an excellent name,” I say gravely.
She beams, hops down, and races back to a woman laughing near the line.
I watch her go and scan the edge of the crowd again.
No Tallulah.
No striped tights. No crooked elf hat. No mess of hair and sharp eyes and bells.
Just a hallway pulsing in my peripheral vision like a sore tooth.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I manage for the next kid, barely.
I can’t leave. Not yet.
There’s a half-dozen still in line, and if Santa stands up and walks away, the whole room will pivot. Eyes will track me, and if Henry’s here, I don’t want to telegraph my panic.
I buy myself another sixty seconds.
That’s two more kids, quick. Enough to not draw attention, not enough to calm the roaring in my ears.
“Bran,” Floyd’s voice says near my elbow.
I hadn’t seen him move closer.
He’s watching me with pinched brow.
“You’re lookin’ twitchy,” he says under his breath. “Is everything all right?”
I bite back a hysterical laugh. “She went to the bathroom,” I tell him. “She should’ve been back by now.”
He glances toward the hallway, then toward the front window, where the woman from State, Maris Wright, is dividing her attention between the store and the area just outside the storefront. Jack is outside somewhere, with other units stationed around the downtown area.
He has it covered, but I can’t help the itchy feeling crawling between my shoulder blades. Apparently Floyd can’t, either.
“Oh, dear,” he mutters, looking at the line of children and parents. “Go.”
I make a decision.
I stand up.
“Santa?” the little boy at the front of the line asks, alarmed.
“Santa’ll be right back, buddy,” I say, forcing jollity. “I need to go check on the reindeer.”
He frowns. “They’re on the roof.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Terrible parking conditions. Be right back.”
He doesn’t buy it, but his mom gives him a gentle tug, nodding at me with understanding that says she’s been to enough small-town events to know nothing runs smooth.
Floyd steps in smoothly, putting a hand on the back of the chair.
“Santa’s helper’s gonna take over for a minute,” he says.
I don’t have time to cringe.
I hand him the hat and beard in one motion, my fingers already clawing at the velcro strap digging into my neck.
He stuffs them on his own head. Without waiting to see the children’s reactions, I go.
The hallway feels longer than it is.
Noise from the main floor dampens. The fluorescent light buzzes. The restroom door is half-open—enough for privacy, not enough to latch.
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Tally?” I call, keeping my voice low. “You decent?”
There’s no answer. Every nerve I have shrieks in alarm.
I push the door all the way open.
The bathroom is empty.
No Tallulah.
No elf hat.
Just a smear on the floor near the sink where someone’s shoe scuffed. The color is red, like Tallulah’s elf shoes.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I hit my radio.
“Jack,” I say. “She’s not in the bathroom.”
Static answers.
Then: “Say again?”
“Tallulah’s not fucking here,” I repeat, already moving.
There’s only one other door in this back hall—the employee exit that leads to the alley behind the store.
It’s supposed to be locked from the inside.
The handle gives when I grab it. Not much. Just enough.
I slam it open, and cold air knifes into my lungs.
The alley is narrow and heavily shaded by the buildings rising up on either side. There’s a dumpster to the right, a stack of pallets to the left, a strip of asphalt leading to the street beyond.
At the far end, framed for an instant in the spill of sunlight, I see them.
A man in a dark jacket.
And Twig, limp in his arms, her head hanging, striped tights bright against the gray.
Time compresses.
He looks back once, just enough for me to catch the angle of his face.
Henry Thurston.
We lock eyes across the distance.
He smiles. It’s small. Infuriatingly calm.
He shifts his hold on her, like he’s adjusting a bag, and jogs toward the street.
“Stop!” I roar.
He doesn’t stop.
I draw.
My gun’s in my hand before my brain catches up. Training, muscle memory, every worst-case scenario I’ve ever rehearsed.
I sight down the barrel.
I have a shot. I have two shots.
Center mass. Center mass means he drops. If he drops, where does she fall?
She’s slung over his shoulder, dead weight. The alley is concrete and ice and broken glass.
If she cracks her head—
If he twists at the last second—
If I miss—
If. If. If.
If I don’t take the shot, he takes her. She’s gone.
“Kelly, talk to me,” Jack’s voice barks in my ear. It’s out of breath, as though he’s running. “I’m almost to you. What’ve you got?”
I don’t answer.
I sight down the barrel instead. My finger tightens on the trigger.
Henry’s at the mouth of the alley now, Twig’s dead weight slung over his shoulder now like she’s nothing. His car is parked half up on the curb, driver’s door hanging open, engine idling.
Too far. Too close to her.
I exhale, try to thread the needle.
Don’t hit her. Don’t hit her. Don’t—
I squeeze.
The shot cracks the air, echoing down the narrow brick corridor. The muzzle flash blinds me for a heartbeat.
The bullet pings off the corner of a dumpster a foot from Henry’s head, showering him with rust and brick dust.
“Fuck,” I snarl.
He ducks, staggering, almost dropping her. But he doesn’t. He clamps his arm tighter around her legs and lunges for the car.
“Kelly!” Jack shouts in my ear. “Report!”
“He’s got her, back alley off Main, heading to a vehicle—”
A shape barrels in from the far end of the alley, opposite me. Jack, gun up, moving like a battering ram.
“Thurston!” he roars, voice big enough to bounce off brick. “Police! Drop her!”
Henry doesn’t even look.
Jack doesn’t hesitate.
His shot cracks through the air a split second after mine.
Henry jerks, a raw, ugly sound torn from his throat. Blood spatters the gray of his coat where his thigh should be.
He stumbles. For one perfect, vicious second, I think he’s going down and I’ll have a clean shot at center mass.
Instead, his knee buckles. His grip on Twig slips, and she spills from his shoulder, tumbling toward the pavement as he lets her go to grab the car door.
“Twig!” I bellow.
I move.
No time to think. No time to aim again. There’s only the sight of her small body falling and the knowledge that I’m not letting her skull meet asphalt.
I holster the gun on the run and lunge.
The world narrows to the sound of my boots pounding and the white-noise roar in my ears.
I don’t catch her clean this time. I get an arm under her shoulders and twist, taking most of the impact in my own knees and shoulder as we hit the ground. Her head still clips my chest instead of concrete.
Pain explodes down my arm.
I don’t care.
Behind me, a car door slams. Engine revs climb.
“Stop!” Jack’s voice shreds the air. A second shot rings out, then a third, sparking off metal as the sedan fishtails at the mouth of the alley.
Tires squeal. Rubber burns.
I get one brief look over my shoulder: Henry half-fallen into the driver’s seat, one hand clamped to his bleeding leg, the other white-knuckled on the wheel.
Then he’s gone, the car jerking out into the street and disappearing in a smear of taillights.
“Fuck!” Jack roars. “Unit Seven, this is Brady, suspect vehicle fleeing north on Maple, dark sedan, partial plate—three, Kilo—” His voice fades as he takes off after the car, boots pounding toward the street. “I’m in pursuit!”
I don’t bother watching him go.
All my attention is on the woman in my arms.
Twig’s limp against me, head lolling, elf hat gone somewhere between the stockroom and hell. Her striped tights are filthy, one knee scraped, a faint red line on her neck where he stuck her.
“Tally,” I say, voice ragged. “Tallulah, look at me.”
Nothing.
I shift, cradling the back of her head in my palm, fingers threading into her hair so I can feel heat, life, anything.
“Baby?” I press. “Give me something, love.”
Nothing.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I press two fingers to her throat.
Pulse. Fast, thready, but there.
Her breathing is shallow, but it’s there too—a faint hitch against my chest.
“Kelly!” Jack’s voice comes faintly over comms now, panting. “He’s in a vehicle—I’ve got units converging. Status on Twig?”
“I’ve got her,” I say, words rough. “He sedated her. Leg wound on him—your shot landed. He dropped her and ran.”
A string of curses crackles in my ear.
“Stay with her,” Jack snaps. “Maris is headed your way, EMS en route. Do not chase. Repeat, do not chase. I’ve got the road.”
“As if I’m lettin’ go of her now,” I growl.
I shift us both, sinking down so I’m sitting on the cold asphalt with my back against the wall, Twig cradled in my lap. I tuck her in against me, trying to shield her from the wind cutting down the alley.
Her head tips against my shoulder. She looks small. Too small.
“Tallulah,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and steady. “Love. I need you to give me somethin’. A twitch. A swear word. Anything.”
For a moment, nothing changes.
Then her eyelids flutter, slow and heavy.
Relief hits so hard my vision blurs around the edges.
“Hey,” I say, the word almost a prayer. “There you are.”
Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I lean closer, breath fogging in the cold air between us.
“What?” I coax. “Say it again, Tink.”
“…donut,” she breathes, the word barely shaped.
I let out a short, wrecked laugh.
“Okay,” I tell her. “You’re back. We’ll get you a donut.”
Sirens wail faintly in the distance, growing louder.
Boots pound behind me.
“Clear!” Maris’s voice cuts through as she rounds the corner at a run, gun already up, eyes sweeping the alley. She takes everything in—the empty mouth of the street, the smeared tire marks, me on the ground with Twig in my arms—in about half a second.
She holsters the weapon and drops to a crouch beside us.
“Is she—?”
“Breathing,” I say. “Pulse is high. He used something. Needle mark on her neck. Chloroform, ketamine, his own special blend, I don’t know.”
Maris’s jaw tightens. “EMS is almost here. Brady’s chasing the car; units are boxing in the routes out of town. We’re already pulling exterior footage.”
“Good,” I say dully.
She studies my face, her expression shifting, sharpening.
“You had a shot,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” I say.
“You took it.” Her gaze flicks to the pockmark in the dumpster behind Henry’s last position. “You missed.”
“I was too far,” I say. “Too careful. Jack clipped him in the leg; that’s why he dropped her. I didn’t want to risk hitting her.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Good,” she says simply.
I blink. My throat goes tight.
“I should’ve—” I start.
“No,” she cuts in sharply. “You did what you should’ve. You saved your primary asset.”
“Don’t call her that,” I snap before I can stop myself.
One of her eyebrows ticks up. “Saved the woman you love, then,” she amends calmly.
The words hang in the frozen air between us. I don’t argue.
Sirens swell louder, bouncing off brick. Blue and red lights strobe at the end of the alley as the ambulance noses in carefully, tires crunching over broken glass and fallen stock.
Maris glances toward the street, then back at me. “They’re gonna want you in the rig with her.”
“Jack?” I ask.
“Still in pursuit,” she says. “He’ll update when he’s got something. Right now your job is her.”
EMTs spill out of the back of the ambulance with a stretcher, moving fast, efficient. They start firing questions—what happened, what she might’ve been exposed to, how long she’s been out.
“Abduction attempt,” I say. “Single jab to the neck, unknown substance, under five minutes unconscious. Pulse rapid, respirations shallow but steady. Prior trauma history, but nothing acute besides the drug.”
They get her onto the stretcher. She stirs once, a soft sound like a protest, fingers twitching against the blanket.
“I’m here,” I tell her, leaning in close so if any part of her is near the surface, she’ll hear it. “I’m right here. I’m not lettin’ go, you hear me?”
Her lashes flutter again, just a flicker.
I take that as a yes.
As they wheel her toward the open ambulance doors, I catch one last glimpse of the alley—the smeared tire marks, the scuffed footprint where Henry almost dropped her, the place where I stood and chose the wrong shot and the right girl.
He got close enough to touch her.
Close enough to carry her.
And he still didn’t manage to keep her.
I climb into the back of the ambulance and take her hand in mine, big palm wrapping around her smaller fingers.
One thought burns through the fear and the fury and the bone-deep relief.
If Henry Thurston wants to chase her, he can run as long and as hard as he wants.
I’ll be right here.
Every. Single. Time.