Chapter Twelve
The house felt different after the gunfire.
Not just colder from the broken window, though that was part of it, but smaller, too.
Maya sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the back bedroom, a blanket tangled around her ankles. Someone—Rachel, probably—had tucked a fleece throw over the thin quilt, the pattern a faded winter scene of trees and cardinals. The lamplight was soft, turning the corners gold instead of shadowed.
It should have felt safe. It didn’t.
The plywood they’d nailed over the shattered front window creaked when the wind hit it, each groan scraping nerves already raw. Every now and then, a sting of cold air snuck under the bedroom window frame, carrying the faint smell of snow and damp wood.
She rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to chase away the chill that had nothing to do with the draft.
Maya’s thoughts flicked to Ruth and Samuel, to evenings at their worn kitchen table, a Bible open between them, Samuel’s calloused finger tracing lines as he read.
To Ruth, humming hymns while she kneaded dough, flour streaking her cheeks like war paint.
He that keepeth thee will not slumber.
She hadn’t thought of that verse in years. Not really. Not like something that could apply to her.
Muffled sounds permeated the house. The low murmur of men’s voices at the front, the faint creak of settling boards, the occasional crack of the fire in the living room.
She took a sip of the tea. Chamomile, maybe, with something sweet.
It wasn’t bistro-quality, but it was warm and somehow comforting.
Her mind didn’t stay with the tea. It slipped back to the boat.
The wind. Her mother’s arms locked around her like a life preserver.
“We’re almost safe. He won’t find us here. Not if we get to Raymond first.”
Maya set the mug on the nightstand, hands trembling. “What were you running from? Who were you so sure would follow us even across the water?”
The question didn’t answer itself. Instead, another sound rose from her memory—the low groan of a barn door. The smell of wet hay. Her mother’s hand shoving her out of sight.
“Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t come out until I say.”
Maya’s fingers dug into the blanket. Her heartbeat picked up.
She was back in the barn. She could feel the prickly hay when she touched it.
The rabbit fur under her hands. Her bare feet freezing on the floor.
The chiming of the wind chimes her mother had bought for her and placed them in the barn that night to help keep Maya calm, yes, but also to alert them if he came in.
Her mother said something else, but the words slid away before they formed. All Maya remembered was the tone. Terror. Determination. The fierce love of someone who would walk into the lion’s mouth to save her daughter.
The next images came fast. Her mother stepped out from behind the bale to protect her.
“Lord,” Maya whispered. “I don’t know how to remember the right things without breaking.
Is my mother still alive somewhere?” Her voice cracked.
“I don’t even know if I’m supposed to ask You for anything after all this time of ignoring You, but please don’t let this be for nothing. Please don’t let this man win.”
Silence answered followed by a soft knock at the door that made her jump.
“Yes?” she called, her voice too high.
“It’s me.” Asa.
Her chest loosened a fraction. “Come in.”
The doorknob turned. Asa stepped inside, closing it most of the way behind him but leaving it cracked, hallway light striping the floor. He’d shed his heavier coat, but his Henley sleeves were pushed to his elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms, the tension in the tendons of his hands.
“Rachel went to check on JT. She told me I could hover,” he said. “She might have used other words, but that was the gist of it.”
“Rachel is overly protective,” Maya said.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “She is.” He crossed the room slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. It should have annoyed her. Instead, she recognized it for what it was—respect. An understanding of how close to the edge she felt.
“How’s the window?”
“Nailed shut and very ugly,” he said. “Will keeps muttering about insurance forms and structural assessments. JT’s trying to convince him plywood is a design choice.”
Maya’s lips twitched. “I can almost hear that.”
“Declan and Eli are checking the adjoining roads for any parked vehicles that shouldn’t be there. So far, nothing. Tracks show the shooter kept to the trees, came in at an angle, and left the same way. No shell casings—we think he policed his brass. He knew what he was doing.”
Of course, he did. “Are you . . .” She cleared her throat. “Are you staying?”
“Just try and get rid of me.” He glanced at the upholstered chair near the window. “I was going to commandeer that. Assuming you don’t mind having a grumpy watchdog in your peripheral vision.”
“I mind the ‘grumpy’ part,” she said with a giggle.
His gaze warmed. “I can work on my attitude.”
“You don’t have to stay in here,” she said, though the words tasted like a lie. “You could be more useful in the living room or outside.”
“Outside, it’s Will and JT with a clear line of sight,” he said. “In here, it’s you—currently on the killer’s top priority list. Guess where I’m picking?”
Her throat tightened.
“You can say no. If you’d rather have space, I’ll park myself in the hall.”
“I don’t want space,” she blurted.
His brows twitched up.
She swallowed hard. “I mean . . . I don’t want to be alone with my brain. Not tonight.”
“Then we don’t let that happen.” He picked up the chair with a soft scrape and moved it closer to the bed, angling it so he could see both her and the door.
The movement was efficient and practiced.
He set his phone on the windowsill where he could reach it in a heartbeat.
The lamp sat between them, casting its warm glow around the room.
Outside, the wind rushed around the house, making the branches tap along the side.
Maya exhaled slowly. “I prayed,” she blurted.
His eyes caught hers. “Yeah?”
She felt suddenly foolish, but the words wanted out now.
“I don’t do that much. I used to. With Ruth and Samuel.
At church. At meals. It felt like . . . breathing then.
Now it feels like trying to remember steps to a dance I never really learned.
” Her fingers tightened in the blanket. “I asked God not to let this be for nothing. Not to let you or the others get hurt because of me. It probably sounds stupid.”
“Not even a little.”
“Do you pray?”
“Sometimes. More lately than I used to. Less polished than the Sunday-school version. More . . . ‘Lord, I’m out of my depth. Help.’”
“That’s pretty much what I said.”
“Then you’re in good company,” he said. “I don’t think He’s grading us on eloquence.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Do you really believe He’s in this? Because right now it feels like the only person writing this story is the man trying to kill us.”
“God hasn’t walked away, Maya,” Asa said.
“He was in that barn the night my dad died, even if I don’t understand why He let any of it happen.
I believe He was with Ruth and Samuel the day they took you in, and I believe He’s here now, in this very ugly safehouse with terrible plywood and surprisingly decent grilled cheese. ”
A laugh snuck out of her, unexpected and small. “You make it sound possible.”
“That’s about all I have most days. The possibility that we’re not alone. That justice means something more than us white-knuckling our way to the finish line.”
The word justice rippled through her. She looked down at her hands. They weren’t shaking as hard now. “When the shots started, I didn’t see the safehouse. I saw the barn.”
He nodded. “You said it sounded the same.”
“It did. The crack. The way everything seemed to slow. I could almost smell the hay again.” She swallowed. “I remembered something I hadn’t before.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, attention sharpening. “What was it?”
She closed her eyes, letting the memory unspool.
“My knees hurt because I’ve been crouching for a while.
My rabbit’s fur is wet from the rain. I can hear my mom’s heartbeat because she held me so tight.
It’s loud in my ears.” She drew a breath.
“I hear the door, then the chimes, only they go silent quickly as if he deliberately silenced them. She tells me to stay as still as possible.” Her fingers were knotted in the blanket.
“He moves closer, his boots are scraping along the floor. I can see them. Dark, scuffed, wet around the edges. He passes the bale where I’m hiding, and I think if I reach out, I could touch his leg. ”
Asa’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
“There’s this smell,” she whispered. “It’s not just hay and rain. It’s something sharper. Like oil. Or metal. Like the inside of an engine.”
“Gun oil?” Asa asked.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but it makes my stomach turn even now.” Her voice trembled. “Then, he mocks her, ‘Vanessa Warren, come out, come out, wherever you are.’” She gasped. “Her name is Vanessa Warren. My mother’s name is Vanessa Warren.”
“You’re doing great,” Asa whispered. “What happened next?”
She flinched, even recounting it. “She told me to stay quiet, and then she went out to him.”
Asa stared at her for a long moment. “She was trying to protect you.”
“Yes.” Maya let what happened next unfold naturally.
“There was a confrontation. My mother tried to reason with him, but his anger exploded. It seemed to echo around the barn. I hear the wind chime sound as it lands somewhere nearby, as if he threw them at her, maybe.” In an instant, Maya was back in that moment, terrified for her mother.
“I dropped my rabbit. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t because my mom told me not to make a sound. ”