Ten #3
The thought that Bruce might have been an arsonist clawed at the back of Trevor’s mind.
He’d always looked up to the man. Bruce had been a larger-than-life figure to him.
Now he wondered if the same hands that had clapped him on the shoulder and told him to face the flames might’ve also sparked them, the same hands that might have set the fire that had stolen his sister’s life and wrecked his mother’s lungs.
The thought churned in his stomach, guilt and betrayal tangling together in a knot he couldn’t untie, and the potential betrayal soured on his tongue.
No, their house fire had been ruled an accident.
By Brody Baird.
“You know, I can drive,” he said, trying for lightness, but his voice came out flat, the tension between them coiling tighter with every mile.
She gave him a side eye. “Is my driving scaring you?”
“A little.” He chuckled but she wasn’t horsing around here.
“I can work on cars and drive them, Trevor. Chill out.”
He exhaled, staring out the window as the familiar stretches of Lavender’s back roads blurred by, dust rising in their wake.
“You sure about this?” He leaned forward to adjust the air vent, though the heat had already soaked into his shirt, sticking it to his back.
“I need answers,” she said, the words biting into the air between them. “I’m not letting this die in a pile of old reports and excuses. We might be solving more than one case in a fell swoop.”
He watched her, the line of her profile set in grim determination, her eyes locked on the road ahead.
For a moment, he thought about reaching for her hand, a quiet reassurance in the middle of all this chaos, but he knew better.
He’d already hurt her with dialing back after the kiss.
But right when he went to make a move forward, he was stalled out by his mother’s needs, and the guilt ate him alive.
His mom couldn’t help her sickness or that her end on earth was nearing.
He shouldn’t feel regret or disappointment that he couldn’t make a go with Helena.
But his mom’s needs were proof. Now he’d hurt her, and it was clear he’d never get the chance to spark a flame with Helena again.
That was equally disappointing.
They pulled onto the narrow two-lane road that wound through the dense pines. The air grew cooler, tinged with the resinous bite of pine sap, and Trevor’s shoulders loosened, the tension slipping away just a fraction.
Until Helena tapped the brake, and nothing happened.
The truck surged forward, the engine’s growl deepening as the grade of the road dropped steeply, the trees whipping past in a green blur. Trevor’s hand shot to the dash, fingers digging into the cracked vinyl as the truck careened into a hard right turn, gravel spitting out from beneath the tires.
“Helena,” he barked, his pulse spiking as the truck continued to pick up speed, the speedometer needle climbing steadily. She yanked the wheel, her jaw clenched, eyes locked on the winding road ahead.
“Brake’s gone,” she confirmed, her voice tight, the calmness a thin veneer over the raw edge of panic he could see in the tight set of her shoulders. “He must have messed with them before tampering with my hydraulic jack.”
Trevor grabbed the seat belt strap, bracing himself as Helena fought to keep the truck centered on the road, the tires skidding dangerously close to the gravel shoulder.
“Pump it,” he said, the words spilling out in a rush, his heart slamming against his ribs. “Try pumping it.” She knew more about vehicles than him, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“I am!” She stomped the pedal, the metal creaking beneath her boot, but the truck only shuddered, the engine whining as they hit another curve. The trees streaked past, the sun breaking through the canopy in strobelike flashes that felt like the ticking of a countdown.
“Emergency brake!” he snapped, turning to reach for the lever between them, but she beat him to it, her fingers wrapping around the handle and yanking it up hard.
The rear wheels locked, the truck fishtailing, gravel spraying up in a stinging arc against the undercarriage as the back end swung out.
She wrestled the wheel, teeth bared in a snarl of concentration, her arms straining against the centrifugal force trying to rip the truck off the road and into the dense underbrush.
The truck skidded sideways, the tires catching just enough to whip the back end around, the force slamming Trevor’s shoulder against the door.
His vision blurred, the world spinning for a sickening moment before the tires bit into the packed dirt, and the truck shuddered to a halt, the engine coughing and sputtering before cutting out entirely.
Silence crashed around them. Lark’s pants were panicked as she scrabbled against the rubber floor mat and righted herself.
Helena sat frozen, her fingers still wrapped around the wheel, her chest heaving, eyes locked on the strip of gravel in front of them, where the road curved away into a stand of towering pines. A few more feet and they would’ve been wrapped around one of them.
“Helena,” Trevor croaked. He reached for her, his hand finding her shoulder, the muscles beneath his fingers trembling like overtaxed steel. “You okay?”
She let out a long, shuddering breath, her eyes closing for just a moment before she released the wheel, her hands falling into her lap. She swallowed hard.
“We need to check the brakes,” she whispered, her voice shaky but firm. A cold knot of dread tightened in Trevor’s gut, the implications settling like lead in his chest.
Someone had cut the line.