Six #2
The crash was instantaneous. The full-size SUV slammed into the guardrail with a deafening jolt, sending a shower of sparks into the night as the tires squealed in agony.
Helena’s body was thrown against her seat belt, her breath stolen from her lungs.
Her eyes widened with shock as the truck lurched to a stop, the engine sputtering, the world around her ringing with the echoes of the crash.
For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of tires on the road. Then, the pickup in the rearview surged forward, headlights blinding in the distance. A quick flash of movement—and then gunshots. Lark began barking.
The crack of the bullets hitting the metal side mirror was a sharp, violent sound that reverberated in her bones.
Helena’s body tensed, fear crawling through her veins like ice.
Trevor pressed his foot to the gas and pulled them forward, but the pickup behind them was relentless, its headlights staying too close.
“We need to go!” Helena shouted, her voice tight with panic. They couldn’t just sit there—they couldn’t be a target.
But Trevor wasn’t waiting. He jammed the pedal to the floor, the SUV roaring to life as they tore down the road, tires squealing against the pavement. The pickup followed, relentless and unforgiving.
Helena didn’t know what would happen next. Every instinct screamed that they needed to lose the tail, that they needed to get somewhere—anywhere—before it was too late. But the pickup wasn’t done with them. Not yet.
They rounded a bend, and the vehicle behind them swerved, slamming into their rear bumper with a sickening thud. The SUV fishtailed again, but Trevor kept control, his knuckles white on the wheel. Helena’s heart was in her throat.
As they continued to speed down the road, Trevor suddenly jerked the wheel to the right, swerving just as the pickup behind them slammed its horn and veered toward them.
The SUV’s tires screeched again, but this time they didn’t fishtail—they slid across loose gravel on the shoulder, the Expedition grinding to a halt.
The pickup behind them passed, its taillights disappearing into the distance—but it could return and finish them off if it wanted.
“It won’t start,” Trevor said, trying to ignite the engine again. “You have got to be kidding.”
Helena bounded from his truck, Trevor on her tail. She popped the hood, her heart racing as she glanced at the road. They were sitting ducks.
She instantly spotted the issue. “Loose line is all.” She grabbed a nearby rock and wedged it under the loose line. Her fingers moved quickly, and adrenaline sharpened her focus as she tightened the connection, wiping her hands on her jeans before slamming the hood shut.
Trevor didn’t wait, jumping back into the SUV without a word, and Helena followed, sliding into the seat.
“Go,” she said, her voice taut with urgency.
He didn’t hesitate, flooring the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, and they sped off into the darkening night, leaving the danger behind.
For now.
But the feeling of dread didn’t leave Helena, gnawing at her as the road stretched out before them, knowing that whoever had been chasing them was still out there, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
Was it someone who didn’t want Alicia’s cold case dug up, or the arsonist killing college girls? Or could it all be connected?
The worst part? She wasn’t sure if they were the hunters or the prey anymore.
* * *
Trevor’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the rough leather creaking beneath his hands as the phone rattled in its console.
His pulse still thrummed from the near-miss with the pickup truck that had tried to shove them off the stretch of Route 6.
He’d received a call earlier from the assisted living center concerning Mom.
Now, he parked at the facility. Helena sat beside him—he wasn’t going to leave her alone if he could help it and she hadn’t minded coming along.
Her eyes lingered on the streetlight overhead as Trevor’s focus locked on his phone screen willing the call he’d just received didn’t happen, that it wasn’t terrifying.
“Your mom’s breathing is getting worse,” the nurse had said, her voice apologetic, tinged with the practiced calm of someone used to delivering bad news. “We thought you should know. It might be time to consider hospice care.”
Hospice. The word lodged like a thorn in his throat, painful and impossible to swallow.
“Trevor?” Helena’s voice cut through the tight, muffled roar in his head. She’d been quiet since they’d escaped the road attack, her knuckles still pale from gripping the door handle during that chaotic skid along the guardrail. She studied him now, her brows knit. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, shoving the truck door open with more force than necessary.
Lark hopped down from the back seat. He heard Helena sigh as she followed, her own door closing with a muted thud as they crossed the lot toward the entrance.
He didn’t bother holding the door, not because he didn’t want to, but because his mind had narrowed to a single, desperate focus.
Mom.
They signed in quickly, the antiseptic air and muted hum of the overhead lights swallowing their footfalls.
The halls wound in long, identical corridors, each turn indistinguishable to the last, each doorway a portal to someone else’s fading life.
Lark padded gracefully beside him, her head up, ears twitching at every muffled cough and distant TV.
The dog’s presence was a comfort as they approached Room 208.
He paused outside the door, his chest tight, the echoes of old guilt clanging in his head.
His mother’s hacking cough, the rattle that had haunted him since he was fourteen, too young and too scared to stop her from running back into that burning house for his sister.
If he’d been more of a man, even then, maybe she wouldn’t be trapped in this bed now, her lungs scarred and weakened, her life slipping by in shallow breaths.
He tapped the door softly, barely waiting for the frail, rasping, “Come in,” before pushing inside.
Mom looked impossibly small against the sterile white sheets, her iron-gray hair fanned across the pillow, her face thinner than he remembered, the oxygen line snaking around her nose like a plastic noose.
Her eyes, though, were the same—keen, a glint of stubborn fire that years and illness hadn’t managed to snuff out.
“Trevor,” she breathed, a weak smile spreading across her cracked lips.
Her hand trembled as she reached for him, the IV line tugging gently at her paper-thin skin.
He stepped closer, bending to wrap her fingers in his.
Her skin felt like tissue, fragile and too warm, and he had to swallow against the lump in his throat.
“Hey, Mom.”
He felt, rather than saw, Helena’s presence beside him. She lingered a step back, giving them space but close enough to catch the quiet rasp of Mom’s voice. A voice that was his fault for being too afraid to run inside first.
Lark padded forward, her nose twitching as she gently rested her head on the edge of the bed, her dark eyes locked on Mom’s face.
Trevor felt a surge of gratitude for the dog’s unwavering loyalty, the way she seemed to sense his mother’s frailty, responding with a calm, comforting presence.
Mom’s wrinkled hand reached out, her fingers trembling as she patted Lark’s broad head, her eyes brightening for the first time since they’d entered the room.
“And who’s this?” Mom’s eyes shifted past him, her smile deepening as Helena stepped forward, extending a hand.
“Helena Rutherford,” she said, her voice softer than Trevor had ever heard it. There was a gentleness there; a careful modulation that wrapped around the sterile air like a warm blanket. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Slate.”
“Nancy, please,” his mother corrected, squeezing Helena’s hand before letting it slip back to the bed. She eyed Helena thoughtfully, the slow, assessing look of a woman who hadn’t lost her edge, even as her body betrayed her. “Rutherford… Bruce’s girl?”
Helena’s breath hitched, a flicker of surprise that Trevor caught in his periphery.
She recovered quickly, nodding and resting a hand gently on the thin blanket draped over Mom’s legs.
Lark, as if sensing the shift in the room, sat back on her haunches, her tail thumping softly against the tiled floor.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mom’s eyes misted, and her fingers plucked absently at the sheets. “Your father was a good man. I went to school with him, you know. Bruce and your Uncle Rick. They were quite the pair.”
Helena stiffened, a hint of confusion tightening the lines around her mouth. “They got along?”
Mom chuckled, though it ended in a shallow, rattling cough that had Trevor instinctively reaching for the water pitcher on the bedside table.
He filled the glass, pressing the cool rim to his mother’s lips as Helena gently adjusted the thin blanket, her fingers brushing Mom’s shoulder in a gentle, intimate gesture.
“Oh, for the most part,” Mom said, her voice steadier after a sip. “They were competitive. Always pushing each other. Football, baseball, girls… I think Rick might’ve had a bit of a crush on your mother back then. Maybe even dated her before Bruce. I can’t remember clearly this many years later.”
Trevor sensed Helena’s shoulders tensing, her hand still resting against the thin cotton of the blanket, fingers going still as if the fabric had suddenly chilled. He caught her eyes, something new flashing there before she masked it.
Mom’s breath hiccupped, her eyes closing for a moment as her hand drifted back to her side, the IV line swaying. “Your father…he saved my life, Helena. That fire…he pulled me out, me and my little girl.” Her eyes grew misty, her gaze turning inward. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Helena’s smile was genuine, an acknowledgment of the gratitude, of the legacy she carried.