Chapter 22 Home Turf （Kane）
HOME TURF (KANE)
This fucking storm.
Between the slanted rain and shrieking wind, the traffic getting out of Bar Harbor has slowed to a crawl.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently checking my phone every few seconds.
It hasn’t been thirty minutes since Margot last texted. No need to worry yet.
Fuck, I should’ve left sooner.
But it was too important to see the kids off until their plane was in the air. Sophie can be a nervous flier, especially without me there.
For now, they’re safe.
Mom will meet them as soon as they get to Portland, and there’s a flight attendant keeping an eye on them until they do.
Meanwhile, Margot’s alone at that house, and I’m still nearly an hour away, if my Google Maps are accurate.
Damn.
Call it illogical and I won’t disagree.
She was sure she’d be fine, but she doesn’t know what this stalker freak might be capable of.
Honestly, neither do I, and that’s the problem.
You can’t prepare for a shit scenario when there’s too much uncertainty.
Better the devil you know. There’s a reason they say it.
How I wish I knew this fucking devil.
Traffic inches forward, red lights blazing through the sheeting rain and horns blaring every time a car tries to cut through the snaking line of vehicles.
Time becomes excruciating.
I listen idly to the radio with a single-minded focus, trying to tune into the local Sully Bay station just in case there’s any news about the storm.
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but not knowing drives me berserk.
This person wants me. Not Margot.
She’s not the target.
She’s safe.
I repeat that mantra until it’s etched into my brain. If only that made me believe it.
Still, she’s a sensible girl. She’s not Daria and she won’t leave the doors unlocked.
Once on a family trip, my ex did exactly that, and we came back to our vacation rental with a beach bum stoner crashing in our bed.
Margot isn’t that stupid.
I can see her making the rounds, glued to her phone for any notification hinting trouble.
Everything’s fine.
If only I could convince my gut.
And at the thirty-minute mark when she should’ve texted me passes, I do my damnedest not to panic and try mudding it through the ditch.
She’s probably watching TV, you jumpy fuck.
Working on more shoe designs.
Cooking something delicious that’ll punch me in the nose the second I get back.
Yeah, that’s the sort of thing she’d do because my woman has a spine.
That doesn’t stop me when I can’t stand the radio silence a second longer.
I punch out a quick message asking for an update.
Last message from her was forty-three minutes ago.
That could mean nothing.
She probably put it down while she was cleaning or cooking or just lost track of time.
After all, I told her I was leaving, and the traffic would suck.
All thanks to this dick-dragging weather.
Another ten minutes limp by and she doesn’t message me back.
Shit.
I’m a patient man, but everyone has their limits.
So I call her, wrenching my way around a car and creeping along the edge of the asphalt in a dangerous sprint that gains me a few extra feet of road.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
I start talking before the beep, but there’s a catch like someone picks up.
“Margot?” Nothing. “Margot? You’re scaring me, woman.”
Static.
A burst of mindless distortion, and then two distant voices.
I can’t make out the words, but there’s a man’s voice, and a higher-pitched one that has to be her.
A scream.
Definitely Margot.
My heart leaps up my throat.
“Please.” She’s pleading and I grit my teeth, tightening my fingers on the wheel as I wrench it to one side, narrowly avoiding a collision as I swing around another car.
“Shut it,” a man growls, and the call disconnects.
Shit. Shit!
All this time, I’ve tried to convince myself she’s okay, when she’s actually in very real danger.
I tell Siri to call the police. It takes forever to connect, minutes of the connection glitching.
Will this fucking traffic ever let up?
I pound the horn with my fist, slowly muscling through the wall of cars in front of me.
“Hello… what’s the location of your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice is still distorted when I finally connect.
“Sully Bay, Fleet Street. My girlfriend’s being assaulted,” I snarl, describing it the best way I can.
“Can you repeat that, sir? I’m sorry. Due to the weather, there’s been a high number of incidents tonight and communication issues—”
I spit the full address as calmly as I can, which is about as chill as a raging moose.
“Copy that,” he says quickly. “I’ll get someone out there soon. Please be advised all our local officers are tied up with accidents, so officers will come from the next town over.”
“Next town? Fuck.” I close my eyes, knowing that probably means Bar Harbor. “ETA?”
“Forty minutes. I’m patching through the details now.”
Far too goddamned long.
“Thanks,” I clip and disconnect, focusing on cutting through the traffic, one hand hovering over my horn.
Give me ten tickets, suspend my license, I don’t care.
As long as I get to the fucking house.
Knowing she’s in trouble glazes my blood. I never got a chance to tell her—
No.
No, you can’t afford to get emotional now.
Long dormant instincts from half a lifetime ago in uniform leap up and bite me in the ass.
You never forget.
Never, never, and not when it’s more than your life on the line.
I swear, if I make it in time—if God is that kind—if I’m angry and cruel enough to keep her safe, if I have my chance to dismember the snake threatening her, I’ll never hesitate again.
I’ll never hold back.
I’ll never let Margot Blackthorn out of my sight without her knowing she’s madly and truly loved.
It takes an eternity, but eventually I’m squealing down the road to the lake, my wipers slashing hopelessly at the rain.
Instead of rocketing up the driveway, I park by the side of the road at the end. I reach into the back seat for a loose hammer on the floor I used on the dock.
Not a good weapon, but for now I’ll have to improvise.
The rain smacks me in the face, soaking me as I prowl to the front door.
My eyes slowly adjust from the glare of my headlights, and I maneuver carefully.
Someone’s still in there with Margot.
They sure as hell won’t leave here alive if they’ve hurt her.
A few lights in the house are on, blazing against the dull night, mostly upstairs.
No sign of anyone near the windows.
The curtains are open, and I can see from this angle that her bedroom window is cracked, though there’s no light inside.
Moving through the gloom, I approach the porch from the side. Gnarled bushes scrape my pants.
I see the front door cracked open and a lamp on, though from this angle, I can’t see inside.
My gut knots.
Margot would never leave the front door open, especially in this situation.
I stop to listen, holding my breath. I can’t make out anything besides rain hammering the house.
I need to get closer, dammit.
Wind whips around the house as I stalk across the porch, keeping out of view and—
Fuck, that’s a smear of blood.
Like dark ink against the light wood, already being washed away by the rain.
A shadow moves in front of me, all slow, halting motion and a low curse.
I’m on them before I can make out who.
Joseph Babin, I realize a second later.
He’s staggering along the porch like he’s been thrashed within an inch of his life.
A second later, I have his collar in my fist and I’ve hurled him against the house. In the near darkness, I can just see the bleary whites of his eyes.
“W-wait,” he says hoarsely, scratching at my wrist. “Wait!”
“Fuck you.” I push my face close to his. “What the hell are you doing here? Where is she?”
His breath smells foul. I don’t bother hiding my disgust.
He looks like he’s about to piss himself.
I hope he’s scared for his pathetic life. It’s very much hanging in the balance right now, depending on what he says next.
“It… it wasn’t me,” he gurgles. His fingers shake weakly as he tries to free his wrist. “I didn’t do it. Please, you have to—”
“Why are you here, asshole? Where’s Margot? Tell me!” I shake him like a pinata.
He turns his head slightly, and I see the bloody gash at the back, like someone smacked him with blunt force.
Relief washes through me.
If he was damn near crawling across the porch, that means the blood I saw is his, not Margot’s.
“I don’t know,” he babbles. “I’m telling you, I-I… I didn’t do anything.”
“Did she do that? Did Margot hit you?” I glare at him, and when he doesn’t answer, I shake him again. “Fucking talk!”
“Wha—no! No, she never saw me. It was the other man.”
“What man?” I growl.
He shakes his head again, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish out of water.
Goddamn.
The rain pounds on, spraying his face, but I don’t give a flying fuck about his comfort.
I want answers to the only question that matters.
And if he’s here at all, it can’t mean anything good. I’m sure his evil sneak of a wife will be slinking around here somewhere, too.
But that’s not what concerns me most—what other fucking man is he talking about?
The man who left the note?
The man who wanted Margot and the kids gone?
I rear back and power-slam Joseph into the wall again until his head bounces.
“Where is she?” I bite off. “You have five seconds. Then you’ll wish I wasn’t carrying this hammer.”
“That man, he’s got her!” he snarls. Fear flickers in his eyes now, his face hollowed out like a jack-o’-lantern past its prime. “Storm cellar, I think. Last place I saw them.”
Fuck me.
Without a second glance, I toss him on the porch face-first and go sprinting through the sleeting rain, rocketing toward that ominous hole in the ground.