Chapter 41
Dylan
I’d noticed a shitty black truck following me the day before Thanksgiving. Not even two days after I watched Myers’ hut in the woods.
The driver tried to be sneaky. Didn’t park in my apartment complex parking lot but across the street.
Always waited at traffic stops.
And when I snatched up a parking spot on one of the side streets near the hospital, the driver didn’t park anywhere close to me.
When I left my car on the dark street for my night shift, my head kept turning. I looked over my shoulder the whole time.
I’d asked my dad to hire security for the family, and silently thanked every higher power I could think of for that decision. He didn’t hesitate. Probably even liked the idea. Buff guys walking around with him, watching his back, like he was somebody.
About halfway through the night shift with Erin on Thanksgiving, we finally sat at the table in the residence room.
“This fucking shift,” Erin huffed as she leaned back in her chair. “I can’t believe they let so many doctors and nurses take off.”
I took a sip of my hospital coffee and instantly regretted it. It was bitter and nasty. The kind of coffee that only those on night shifts had to endure.
This shift had been nonstop fires until now. Calls. Chaos. No breaks. I was still wearing booties and a surgical cap, ready for the next emergency.
The clock on the wall read 12:02.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I said. “People want to be with their families.”
“I get that,” she said. “But sick people don’t just stop being sick. They could’ve at least left a bare-bones crew. This place feels like a graveyard.”
My phone buzzed against the table.
A message from Kelley at the front desk.
Some guy left a note for you.
My fingers tightened around the phone, and I stood.
“Where are you going?” Erin asked.
“Front desk,” I said. “Some patient is looking for me or something.”
She nodded. “You coming back after?”
“Might be a bit. I’ll do a few more rounds while I’m at it. ICU and the children’s floor. Pediatric oncology’s short today, so I’ll help where I can. I’ll see you later.”
She hid her disappointment and nodded again.
Downstairs, Kelley sat at the front desk, reading a romance novel with a bare-chested guy on the cover. The ER waiting room to her left was nearly empty.
Without looking up, she handed me an envelope.
Her oversized pink glasses slid down her nose. She waited until I took the envelope before pushing them back up.
“Who left this?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It wasn’t the same guy as last time.”
I nodded. Last time was Nolan.
“This one looked kinda homeless,” she added.
“It was probably Willy,” I said. “He’s going through a rough patch again.”
She shrugged, still not looking up. “Hard to say. He was wearing a baseball cap and one of those Florida sweaters. The tourist kind with bright colors and a big state logo on the front. It looked like something people buy on vacation and never stop wearing.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding like it all made sense. “Then it must be Willy. I got him a Florida sweater for colder days. He’s always wearing that same T-shirt and thinks jackets have listening devices sewn into them.”
She finally looked up at me and shook her head. “Listening devices? Oh God. I don’t envy you.”
She pointed at the envelope in my hand. “Probably a letter about him being a prophet or something.”
“I hope I can get him back on his meds,” I said. “He does so much better when he’s on them.”
“Let’s hope,” Kelley muttered, already turning back to her book.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said and turned.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she mumbled.
I headed for the main stairs, then changed my mind and took the back stairwell instead. It was quiet, and the moment the door closed behind me, my legs gave out.
I fell on the stairs hard. Cold stone seeped through my scrubs. My phone slipped from my hand and landed next to me.
Thoughts flooded me, loud and fast. Too many to grab on to. And before I could slow them down, I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a picture … of a bloody knife.
It looked like a regular kitchen knife. Nothing special. The kind anyone could buy at any store. Black handle. Silver blade. Except the blade was smeared with dark, crusted blood.
My stomach twisted hard.
I didn’t need to wonder whose blood it was.
Zach’s murder weapon had never been found. Now Zach’s killer was sending me a picture of it.
This could mean only one thing.
Myers was done playing. Done hiding. Ready to move his pieces and start the game again.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dylan,” a woman said.
I looked up and faked a smile.
Tessa.
Her short white curls looked a little wild. Night shift on Thanksgiving.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too!” I said, taking the first few steps up just as she took hers down.
“Almost done, huh?” I added, keeping my voice light.
“Just a few more hours,” she hollered back. “We can do it.”
Her footsteps faded, then the thud of the door two floors down echoed up through the stairwell.
I waited.
Then rushed down the stairs.
I had to act.
Fast.
I pushed through the back door by the trash cans and stepped into the back alley. The fall cold wrapped around me, biting through my scrubs. My whole body trembled. Maybe from the cold. Maybe not.
The street stretched out empty and dark. No cars. No people. Streetlights buzzed. Wind dragged leaves and trash across the street.
I turned more than once on the way back to the car. Stopped. Looked. Any flicker caught my eye and made my heart jump. The short walk felt endless.
The envelope and the picture were crumpled in my pocket. I unlocked my car, then spun around, scanning the street, half expecting Myers to jump me right there. To shove me inside. A gun to my head. A hand clamped over my mouth.
I waited and listened.
And when no one appeared, I yanked the door open and got inside. The engine roared to life, and the click of the locks sent a rush of relief through me.
But then a man’s voice came from behind me.
“Don’t turn around, or I’ll blow your brains out.”
My hands shot up without thinking. Fingers spread. My pulse slammed so hard it blurred my vision.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
A man in a fucking ski mask sat in the backseat of my car!
I felt ice cold, like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on top of me.
“Start driving,” he said.
Slowly, I lowered my hands to the steering wheel where he could see them.
My head raced. This was Myers. No doubt about it. The mask hid his face, but he was wearing the Florida sweater Kelley had mentioned.
Here I was. Finally. With the Myers.
“Where to?” The words barely made it out.
“You stupid or something?” he barked. “To the Seacoast Inn.”
Of course.
I started driving. At the first stop sign, a cop pulled up next to us.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” Myers growled as he ducked lower in the back. “I’ve got nothing to lose anymore.”
The way he said it left no room for doubt.
I waited. Forced myself to breathe. Watched the light turn green. Then drove, eyes locked ahead as the cop took a turn.
Once we hit the highway, Myers sat up straighter in the backseat. He twitched. Shifted. Sniffed hard. Over and over. His smell filled the car. Booze. Sweat. Something foul. He looked rough. Worse than I expected.
“I hear you’ve been fucking looking for me,” he said.
The metal of his gun caught the highway lights as he pointed it at me. I kept my eyes forward. Said nothing.
“You fucking deaf or something?” he snapped.
“No. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted me to say anything,” I said fast.
“So why you looking for me?” He snorted. “Just like your fucking grandma back then,” he added with hate.
“I-I was told you were in the area,” I said. “And, all things considered, it’s only logical I’d try to find you, no? To see if we can’t make a deal that benefits us both.”
Staying close to the truth felt smarter here. If he’d wanted me dead, I wouldn’t still be breathing. So he wanted something else from me.
“That bitch cunt Harlow talks too much,” he muttered. “Can’t trust him.”
“Nobody can trust Harlow,” I said. “I’m sure he told you he will get your charges dropped. Said that if he can find you, the cops can find you too. And then it’s too late for him to help you.”
His knee bounced. His hand tightened around the gun, then loosened, then tightened again. Neurotic. Jittery. Not a good mix when someone points a gun at you.
“Well,” I continued, “I guess we have one thing in common.”
Our eyes met in the mirror.
“I mean, we both can’t trust Harlow. He is a liar. Says whatever people want to hear to get what he wants.”
He didn’t respond.
We drove the rest of the way without talking. Buildings gave way to darker stretches of fields. It felt smarter to stay quiet. Let him feel in control. Which he was. He had the gun.
I took the county road leading to the Seacoast Inn, but as we got closer, he leaned forward again, close enough that I could feel his breath near my ear.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
I knew exactly where he meant. The hut. Still, I played dumb.
“I thought you said we were going to—”
“Just fucking drive,” he hissed. “About a mile down the road. Then take the dirt road on your right.”
I did as he told me. My hands stayed steady on the wheel even though his gun moved in short, jerky motions every time he twitched.
The headlights brightened a narrow gravel road cutting into the woods. I eased onto it.
Trees closed in on both sides, tall and dense. I was driving straight through a gateway to my death.
At the end of the road, several large boulders blocked the way.
I put the car in Park.
“Turn the engine off and get out,” he demanded.
The second we stepped outside, he shoved me forward, hard, sending me stumbling. It was nuts. All of it. I was still in my scrubs, booties, and even surgical cap.
“Move,” he snapped, pushing me onto a narrow path. “This way.”
At first, it was almost fully black. My foot caught on a root, and I hit the ground. He swore behind me, then turned on the flashlight on his phone. A weak beam cut through the darkness, lighting up the dirt path ahead.