Chapter 45
REED
Don’t move.
That’s all I can think as the sound of footsteps crunching through the brush comes closer. Don’t. Fucking. Move. Every instinct I have is screaming for me to leap to my feet and bolt. But I can’t. Whoever shot me is too close, nearly on top of me now. If I move, they’ll kill me for sure.
The footsteps stop. Blood seeps from my hairline and into my eyes.
Blood that isn’t from the bullet but rather from the stone I hit as I fell—a single glancing blow to the forehead that had me seeing stars.
Whoever is there is standing directly behind me now, studying me.
I can feel their gaze burning over my neck.
I don’t move an inch, don’t breathe, just lie there motionless and pray they’ll think I’m dead.
For a second, I think that’s exactly what will happen, that they’ll turn and walk away.
But they don’t. Two more gunshots come instead, the bullets punching straight into my back.
The pain is sudden and scalding. I feel something crack.
A howl tears up my throat, but I bite it off and lock it behind my teeth.
I can’t move even though I’m in absolute agony.
And I don’t. I simply lie there, waiting for the final bullet.
The one I know will end me. I can already feel the gun moving higher, centering on the base of my skull.
Just get it over with. Make it quick.
But instead of another gunshot, I hear a distant scream. A cry for whoever is hovering over me to—
“STOP!”
I sense a shift. A hesitation.
A radio squawks. There’s mumbled conversation.
It’s static to me, nothing more than noise through my still ringing ears.
Then it’s gone, and I can hear the dry crunch of grass once more as the man—I know it’s a man now based on his voice—moves closer.
If he’s smart, he’ll take that final shot.
If he isn’t, he’ll get close and try to roll me over.
Roll me over, I think. Please, roll me over.
A pair of camouflaged knees come into view.
A hand hits my shoulder and pushes.
I take the rock—the one I’ve been cupping in the palm of my hand since I fell—and swing it upward as hard as I can.
The man’s eyes widen a second before it connects with his chin.
That’s all I can see of him. His eyes. The rest of his face is covered with a camouflage face mask.
His head whips back with a satisfying crunch.
And then I’m up and slamming into him with my shoulder.
We tumble down the hill together. My ribs crackle like broken glass when we hit level ground.
The gun flies from his hand and lands a few feet away. We both scramble for it.
He’s fast.
I’m faster.
My palm lands on the grip a half-second before his. And then I’m rolling away from him, bringing the gun up. But not high enough because he’s already on me, one hand clawing at my eyes, the other grabbing my wrist.
I pull the trigger.
He goes stiff and then topples onto his back. I jump to my feet with the gun still in my hand and rip off his mask.
“No more shooting!” he cries. “Please!”
My mouth falls open. Even through all of the grime on his face, I recognize him immediately. The round cheeks. The buzz-cut blond hair. The empty eyes which are now filled with fear: Officer Calvin Holston.
“Who else is here?” I growl.
“No one.” He winces as he says it, and I see the blood seeping through his fingers, both of his hands cradling his gut.
I level the gun at his head. It’s a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter. I know this because I own a Sig myself. A 44 ACP. I don’t like guns, never have, but after the crash, I decided it would be wise to learn how to protect myself. Pistols like this are one way to do that. Bulletproof vests are another.
I’m wearing one right now, strapped to my torso beneath my hoodie.
It’s a level-four tactical combat vest designed to stop even the most high-powered rounds.
It’s the only reason I’m not the one lying on the ground in Holston’s place, trying to keep my blood in my body.
After the wreck, I grew paranoid, certain Donald Nash would eventually track me down.
And when he did, I knew he’d hire someone to take me out.
It’s why I wore the vest beneath a collection of baggy sweaters and pullovers for months anytime I left the house.
I was certain every stranger I passed would pull out a gun.
When no one did, my paranoia faded, and I started to relax.
After a while, I stopped wearing the vest altogether.
The only reason I have it on now, is because I’d thought to grab it when I swung by the house to get the shovel.
And I’m glad I did. The vest is the only reason I’m still alive.
But that doesn’t change the fact my ribs feel like they’ve been hit with a parade of sledgehammers. Every breath hurts.
“No one?” I ask, glancing around. “I don’t think so. Lie to me, and I shoot you again. Who else?”
A vein bulges near the kid’s temple. “I swear! My dad was here, but he left! He thinks you’re dead.”
I should be dead. It’s a miracle I’m not. “Your dad is Officer Gunn, I assume?”
He gives me a weak bobble-head of a nod. “Yes.”
“What’s his real name?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Zane Jenson.”
“And who does that make you?”
“Sean.”
“Okay, Sean, last chance. Who else is in on this? Because I know there are more than two of you.”
“There aren’t. I promise. Fuck, man, you have to help me. I’m dying here!”
He is. The blood bubbling through his fingers is a dark crimson that almost looks black in the fading light. The color likely means the bullet hit an internal organ. Maybe his liver.
“Answer my questions, and I might call an ambulance. If there were only two of you, who was driving the van at the quarry?”
“I was. We … we parked it back in the trees before we brought you there. We had to circle back to get it after you drove to the meet-up point. It took me longer to get there than …” He screws his eyes shut with a grimace and then opens them.
“Than I thought it would. It’s why we were late to the exchange. ”
I let his explanation simmer in my brain.
What he’s saying could feasibly make sense.
They would have had to change out of their cop uniforms first. And they were late.
Besides, the kid is seriously wounded, and he’s scared.
If he’s lying to me, he’s one hell of a good actor.
Still, there’s something bothering me—something that doesn’t add up.
I lean forward and position myself directly over him. “Do you think I’m stupid? You must, because your father has brown eyes. The man who took Avery had blue eyes.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “He does that. He’s really good at changing his appearance. And changing other people’s. All those pictures of her looking hurt … it was all makeup.”
His words settle like stones in the pit of my stomach. All of my worry for Avery, all of my fear about what was happening to her, my absolute panic over what they were doing to her—all of it was for nothing.
I realize Sean is still speaking, his lips turning blue. “When he abducted her, he was wearing colored contacts. It was him. I fucking swear it was!” He blinks again. He’s shaking now, going into shock. I tear off my hoodie, crouch next to him, and press the shirt against the wound.
“Here, use this.”
He winces and takes it.
I wipe a fresh ribbon of blood from my forehead. “Why did you try to kill me, Sean?”
His lips quiver. “We—we needed your money.”
“You already have my money!”
He blanches. “No, we don’t. Bailey does. My sister, Cora, she’s—she’s sick. We need the money for a procedure … or she’ll die. The account you transferred the funds to belongs to Bailey, and she won’t give it to us. She’s the one who did this to you. All of it. You know her as—”
“Avery,” I finish.
He gives me a weak nod, and my heart plummets.
Avery did this. Avery who is Bailey. Bailey who set this in motion the day I met her on the side of the road nearly a year ago.
The realization rolls over me like a tide.
She studied me. Manipulated me. Used me.
Convinced me to pool our money and invest in crypto so she could steal it all.
The staged abduction.
Her pregnancy, which I realize now—Jesus—was as fake as her name.
The mad scavenger hunt designed to take me on a tour of the dark corners of my past. Like the Walmart parking lot, which was a reminder of the insurance scam I ran with my father when I was a kid.
He’d station me behind cars as they backed out of spaces and then sue whoever was driving when I was hit.
And the abortion clinic, which was a nod to the day Taylor killed our baby and burned our future together.
Even the place where I’m standing now—Taylor’s property—is a reminder of the life I had before everything went to shit.
Every moment from the last two days was engineered to inflict as much pain on me as possible.
I look at Sean. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you shoot me? Did Avery tell you to do that, too?”
“No,” he says, trying to speak through a bubble of blood. “My dad said we couldn’t let you go. He said you’d eventually find out what we did. He … said you’re …” He swallows, and his Adam’s apple inches up his neck. “A liability.”
“Where did they go, Sean?”
His eyes flutter. He doesn’t answer. I’m losing him. I reach for his chin and give it a shake. “Sean! Where is your father and Avery?”
He smacks his lips and squints. “At a … a cabin.”
“What about your vehicle?”
His eyelids flutter, his gaze drifting over my shoulder. “That way—a half mile down the road. There’s a pullout near an old barn. Please … don’t let me die. I don’t want to die.”
His eyes roll into his head, and I give his chin another shake. “Sean, give me the address to the cabin.”
“14 … 54 County—County Road 213.”
It’s the last thing he says.
I stare at him with everything inside of me twisting into knots. This didn’t need to happen. None of it. A hollow weight forms in my gut. I did what I had to do. I defended myself and fought back. So why do I feel so guilty?
Maybe it’s because Sean is so young. Maybe it’s the fear I heard trembling in his voice with every word.
Or maybe it’s because he never should have been put in this position in the first place.
Whatever the reason, I can’t help but feel like his death is my fault—an echo across the years coming from my old life.
A life I was done with. A life I now know will never be done with me.
A liability. The word smokes through my head, hot and blistering. I wasn’t one.
But I am now.