53. Garrett
GARRETT
Cooper’s brother takes a swing at my face, his complexion redder than a stoplight. Unlike Cooper, Austin never served in the military. He doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. That much is clear.
I step back, grabbing his wrist, and push his hand to the side.
My phone rings. I let it go to voicemail.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” My tone is the lash of a deadly whip. “Isn’t it bad enough you’ve been harassing me? You don’t come into Cassie’s house and throw punches at her guests.”
“You’re no guest.” His face contorts—nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing. “You’re the man responsible for her husband’s death. My brother’s death.”
“Austin!” Cassie’s voice tug-of-wars between horror and dismay. “How can you say that?”
“He was the one who issued the order that resulted in the explosion.” He jabs an angry, misguided finger in my direction. I have no idea what orders he’s talking about. Likely ones he pulled out of his ass. The mission was classified. Everything about it was classified.
“The explosion the Taliban was responsible for,” she volleys back, her tone firm, unwavering, like a general warning a soldier not to be hotheaded. “The Taliban killed my husband and your brother, Austin. Not Garrett. Garrett loved Eli like you and I did.”
My phone rings a second time. I let that too go to voicemail.
Austin scoffs, but even then, the anger in his eyes softens. His eyes soften. For her.
Oh, shit.
He’s in love with her. When the hell did that happen? Is that why he’s been sending me those letters?
“He messed everything up.” He gestures at me with his finger again, but his attention is solely on Cassie. “Things would’ve been so different if my brother hadn’t died. We would’ve had a chance.”
Cassie closes her eyes, the pain from his words etched on her face, her shoulders rolling forward under the new weight of this truth.
Shaking her head, she reopens her eyes. “Austin, not again. Not now. Don’t you see? We wouldn’t have had a chance. We made a mistake. A night of weakness. One night. That’s all.”
My phone rings for a third time as I fight to process everything they’re saying. Cassie cheated on Cooper. Double shit.
“How can you say that?” Austin bites out, apparently forgetting I’m here. Or maybe he doesn’t care I’m hearing this monumental confession. About how he betrayed his brother, my friend.
Christ. To think I flew here when I have a book due in thirteen days, all because Austin is in love with Cassie. That must be why he’s been writing to me—he somehow blames me for his lack of romantic relationship with his brother’s wife.
At least the trip isn’t a total loss. I can do some marathon writing in my hotel room over the next few days.
Maybe send the book to my editor a day or two early, and then I can finally talk to Zara, fix what I broke between us, and be the father my daughter needs.
I check my phone to see who’s calling. Noah.
“I love you, Cassie.” Austin’s lovesick tone is back. “I’ve always loved you. Even before the two of you fell in love and decided to marry.”
The call goes to voicemail .
I check who called the other two times. Also Noah. From his work number.
Maybe he’s calling about Annie Wilkes 3.0. Whatever his reason for calling, it must be important given how many times he’s rung in the last few minutes.
I take a step toward the doorway. “I should go.” My words are for no one in the kitchen in particular.
“No, don’t go.” Cassie’s voice is somewhere between resolute and exasperated. “What did you mean when you said Austin’s been harassing you?”
My phone rings for the fourth time. Again, it’s Noah.
“I’ve gotta get this,” I tell her, inching toward the door. “It shouldn’t take long though. And then we can talk.” I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear. “Hey, Noah. What’s up?”
A long beat of silence answers my question. For a second, I wonder if I accidentally sent him to voicemail.
“Garrett.” His voice sounds oddly broken, and it’s enough to freeze me to the spot. “Are you driving?”
My gut tightens at his question, and unease warns me this call isn’t just to tell me the police know who’s been sending the newest round of “love” letters.
A cloud outside moves over the sun, casting the kitchen in shadow.
“No. I’m not. What’s going on? Is Peony okay?
” The words spill out in an unstoppable rush.
“I’m sorry to call to tell you…” His breath comes through the line shaky, and ice-cold dread pumps through my body, paralyzing me.
“What’s going on?” I’m vaguely aware of the room turning pin-drop silent as all eyes turn to me, the concern and anguish in my tone making it clear this isn’t a social call.
“Is something wrong with Peony? My family? Zara?” The volume of my heartbeat intensifies, echoes off the walls, at just saying the names.
“We don’t know where Peony and Zara are. One of your neighbors reported hearing a gunshot.” Noah’s tone has shifted to work mode, like he’s relaying the facts in court. “When I arrived on the scene…Emily had been shot.”
My stomach free-falls to the kitchen floor, taking my heart with it. “ Shot? Is she all right?” She has to be all right. This is Em we’re talking about. If anyone can bounce back from being shot, it would be her.
A long, heavy sigh comes through the phone line. I know what he’s going to say before he utters the words, but I still hope I’m wrong. Christ, please be wrong.
Why was Em even at my house?
“I’m sorry, Garrett. Emily didn’t make it. She died at the scene.”
At those final words, it’s as if the weight of the universe crashes onto my shoulders, knocking the air from my lungs. My legs buckle, and I have to grab hold of the chipped kitchen counter just to keep upright.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
“My mother.” I can barely get the words out, the sound of my voice splintered and strained. “Peony is with my mother.” She’s not with Zara. My daughter’s okay. Mom probably took her to visit Dad, or they went to the lake or one of the other places they like to explore.
And maybe Zara is with them. I clutch tightly to that thin thread of hope with slippery hands.
“Your mother had a medical appointment. Zara was looking after Peony. The two of them were last seen at Lucas and Simone’s house.
Simone said that Zara took Peony home for a nap.
No one saw them at your house, but a witness heard a woman and child screaming after the gunshot.
And then Zara’s car, as well as a black SUV, were seen racing from the scene.
We’re currently searching for both vehicles.
Do you have any idea who the owner of the SUV could be? ”
“Fuck. Black SUVs aren’t exactly uncommon. Kellan and I both have one.” Mine’s at the airport parking lot in Eugene, so my Explorer isn’t the vehicle witnesses saw.
Flames of fear lick inside me, stoking an anger deep in my gut. I scrub my hand over my face, hardly able to draw air into my lungs. I won’t be able to pull in full lungfuls again until Peony and Zara are safe in my arms.
Noah asks me more questions, but none of my answers bring us any closer to figuring out who killed one of my closest friends, and where Zara and my daughter went.
“I’ll be on the next available flight,” I tell him as I walk to the front door.
“I’ll text you once I have the flight info. ” I end the call.
“Wait, Garrett.” Cassie’s voice lassos me to the spot.
I might not have told her what’s going on, but she would have heard enough from my end of the conversation to get a pretty good idea.
“You’re in no state to drive to the airport.
Let me drive you. Austin can bring me home after I drop you and the rental car off. ”
My eyes dart to the man who’s been sending me harassing letters. I’m too exhausted to deal with his drama, to fight out whatever issue he has with me. It’s nothing more than a pebble in the hell that is my life right now.
Wincing, he raises his hands. “Cassie and I obviously need to talk things through, but I won’t cause you any more problems. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t elaborate on why he’s sorry, but I doubt it’s an apology for the letters.
It’s just as well. I’m too emotionally and physically drained from Noah’s news to deal with Austin; otherwise, I might just knock the crap out of him. If not for the letters, I wouldn’t have flown here to deal with the issue. I would have been at home. Emily would be alive.
And my daughter and the woman I love wouldn’t be missing.
But as much as I would like to blame him for everything that happened, the way I’ve been blaming myself for what happened to Cooper and Clarke, it’s like Cassie said. The Taliban killed her husband. I didn’t. The shooter killed Emily. Austin had nothing to do with that.
I wasn’t the one who set up the explosive.
He wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.
My phone rings. I’m sitting at my gate in the airport, my computer open on my lap, waiting for the boarding announcement.
It’s not Noah this time. Nor is it my mother or Lucas or Troy calling again.
It’s one of my FBI contacts I use when researching my books .
I accept the call, relieved to have a brief moment where I can focus on something other than the new hell I’m in. A hell that closely parallels the book I’m supposed to be working on. “Roger.”
I don’t have it in me to make my voice pleasant. It comes out gruff. Strangled. Destroyed.
I rub my hand over the crack in the vinyl seat, wishing that was all it would take to reverse time, to prevent me from getting on the plane to Tucson.
“Garrett. First, I’m sorry about everything that’s happening. This probably isn’t a good time to call, since I’m not sure if you give a damn right now about the question you asked me the other day…” He lets the rest of whatever he was going to say trail off.