Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Angry voices rose and fell as Tate entered the main lodge.
Sleet had pelted his coat, despite the covered walkway, and he removed it, tossing it on a nearby hook.
All of his former classmates had gathered in the lobby.
Annie stood near the fireplace, her hands up, palms out.
Golden curls had wriggled free from her hastily formed ponytail.
Preston stood a short distance away, flanked by two of his best friends, Dylan and Nick.
Annie kept her voice level. “I’m asking you to listen—”
“We’re not gonna be sitting ducks for this lunatic,” Preston snapped. He puffed out his chest, straining the cashmere sweater. “I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
Tate cut through the crowd to Annie’s side and gave Preston a look that told him to back off. “What’s going on?”
Annie glanced at him. “Preston and some of the others received a text message from Seth.”
Evan stepped forward, thrusting his cell phone toward Tate. The message filled the screen.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…which of you will be next to go? Kayla was the beginning, but I’m not finished yet. Not even close. For twenty years, you’ve escaped justice, but no longer. The bridge is out. The storm is here. Vengeance is mine.
Tate’s went still. Whether the killer realized it or not, he’d quoted part of a Bible verse. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. He’d gotten the first part right, but hadn’t understood the second half. Whatever part they’d played in Seth’s death was for the Lord to judge.
“How many people got this text?” Tate asked. Almost everyone in the room raised their hands, including Annie. His chest tightened. She hadn’t been collateral damage at the cabin after all. The killer was targeting her directly.
Caleb, seated with his old band buddies Harry Wong, Lionel Jenkins, and Lizzie Weber, notably didn’t raise his hand. Neither did the others. None of them had attended the bonfire.
Lionel was built like Tate, but he struggled to envision the mild-mannered schoolteacher wielding a knife.
Harry’s skin color was too dark to match the strip of skin Tate had glimpsed between glove and sleeve, and Lizzie was female.
If Caleb was working with someone else to get revenge for his friend Seth, it wasn’t obvious who.
Of course, the killer could’ve sent the text message to himself to throw off the investigation. It was what Tate would do.
“Like I said.” Preston spread his hands, vindicated. “We’re sitting ducks.”
The arguing swelled again as the group debated what to do.
Heather, her complexion gray, edged closer to Preston and the other guys, as if seeking safety.
She’d also received the text from the killer.
Heather had arrived late to the bonfire, after the fight was over, but as Kayla’s best friend, she’d likely known what Kayla was up to—using Seth to make Preston jealous.
She’d probably encouraged it. That put her high on the target list.
Heather. Preston. Tate. Annie. Nick and Dylan and Evan, who’d helped Tate separate Preston and Seth when the fight broke out.
They were the ones directly involved. The others had been silent witnesses.
Guilty by association, and culpable perhaps in the killer’s mind, but lower in priority.
Even with the bridge out and the storm raging, there was limited time.
The murderer would have to choose his victims wisely, and Tate was betting he’d pick the ones he deemed most responsible.
Annie whistled to draw the room’s attention.
“I know everyone is frightened, but we need to stick together.” Her gaze shifted from person to person.
“The storm is expected to clear in roughly twenty-four hours. That’s one night.
We stay here in the main lodge together—all of us with a Texas Ranger and me, a former police officer.
There’s plenty of food, and every entrance will be watched until morning. ”
She waited a beat, then nodded toward the window, where sleet lashed the glass.
“Now think about what that text was designed to do. He wants us scared. He wants us pointing fingers and splitting off into little groups, because six people in an unguarded cabin is an easy target. Eighteen people in one building are a fortress. Look at the pattern—the parking lot, the cabin. Every attack has come when someone was isolated. He hunts people who are alone.”
“Annie’s right,” Tate added. “Staying together is the best solution. Come morning, the storm will break. My fellow rangers are three miles away. They’ve already agreed to come and help until the bridge is repaired.”
The room went quiet, the crackle of the fireplace suddenly loud. Cameron reached for Nick’s hand. Near the window, Lizzie slipped her coat back off. Even Dylan looked uncertain, trading a glance with Heather.
For a heartbeat, Tate thought they had them.
Then Preston scoffed. “And how exactly is that supposed to keep us safe when the killer is right here with us?”
The room’s fragile unity collapsed into sidelong glances. The fear crept back in. Tate stepped forward, but Preston didn’t give him a chance to talk.
“Forget it, Tate.” He shook his head. “Nick, Dylan, and I will take charge from now on.”
“That’s not a good idea.” Tate raised his voice to be heard over the chatter. “You don’t have the training to fight off a killer on your own. The safest thing to do is stick together, as Annie said.”
Preston glowered at him. “No offense, but you and Annie barely made it out of that burning cabin alive. I don’t think you guys should give advice to anyone.”
“He’s a Texas Ranger.” Caleb spoke up from his chair across the room. “Which makes him more of an expert than you. I’d listen to him and Annie if I were you, Preston.”
Preston rounded on him, his face turning red. “No one asked you, Riggins. You always were a coward, afraid of your own shadow. Never fighting back. Must’ve been all those times I locked you in the maintenance closet.” He sneered. “Guys, remember that time he cried like a little girl—”
“Enough!” Tate stepped between the two men, blocking their view of each other. “We’re wasting time fighting with one another.”
“Agreed.” Preston turned to Dylan and Nick. “Let’s go. We’ll hole up in a cabin with the people we trust.”
Tate stepped in front of Preston. “Hold up, man. Let’s discuss this first.”
Preston sidestepped. “I’m not interested.” He tossed a look toward the rest of the room. “If you want to stay with us, then come talk to me and I’ll decide if you can. Otherwise, good luck.”
The room broke apart into groups, the noise level climbing. Annie, her body tense, turned toward Tate. “We can’t let them do that.”
“I don’t see how we can stop them.” He shared her fear, but Preston’s mind was made up. Foolish as it might be, he was an adult who could make his own choices.
“I’ll try to talk some sense into Nick,” Evan said, stepping forward. “Maybe he can convince Preston.”
Brooke nodded, placing a reassuring hand on Annie’s arm. “I’ll do the same with his wife, Cameron. She’s always been more reasonable.”
Evan escorted Brooke across the room. They intercepted Nick and Cameron, steering them away from Preston to a corner. But it was Caleb who drew Tate’s attention.
Caleb sat back in the armchair, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he watched the room spiral into barely controlled panic.
One finger moved against the armrest, slow and steady.
No fear. No huddled whispering. While his former classmates argued about whom to trust, Caleb looked like a man watching a show he’d paid good money to see.
And when Preston’s voice cracked on an order to Dylan, something flickered across Caleb’s face that came dangerously close to excitement.
Unease coiled in Tate’s gut. The two-perpetrator theory Luke had suggested resurfaced, and this time it took shape.
One mission. Two killers. An inside man who knew their history, their phone numbers, their movements. Someone who could scatter them across the ranch with a few texts. And an outside man, strong enough to match Tate blow for blow, comfortable operating in an ice storm.
Caleb and Dwayne?
No, that didn’t sit right. Tate might not have believed everything Dwayne said, but his concern about Annie read as genuine. Still, he’d bet his badge the property manager knew more than he was letting on. So Caleb and…someone else in their group? Another member of Seth’s family?
None of it made sense. He had pieces and no thread. No proof of anything.
He could just be seeing killers in every shadow.
And the not-knowing was the worst of it. How could he keep everyone safe—keep Annie safe—if he didn’t know who he was supposed to protect them from?