Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 190(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
I'm on my feet before he even finishes speaking. I need Emmett right now. I need his arms around me. I need his heart beating against my ear. I need to hear him tell me that everything is going to be okay. Because right now, it really doesn't feel like it will be.
I can't breathe through the fear.
Callum pulls a gun, and I rear back.
"Easy, Nina," he murmurs. "It's for your protection."
"I…" I trail off, nodding.
He leads me out to his truck, checking the growing shadows carefully. I don't think I draw a single breath until we're locked inside the vehicle, driving away from the house.
"Any idea where he might be?" Callum asks, glancing over at me as we hit the main road.
"When we talked, he was pulling up at Dillon's office," I mumble. "I don't know where they went if they aren't there."
"We'll start there."
I nod, turning my face to the windows. Neither of us speaks as he races toward Silver Spoon Falls. My mind isn't on conversation. It's on my brother. It's on my father. It may be wrong to hate the dead, but right now…I'm mad as hell at him for putting us in this position. Never once did he choose us. He chose himself and his own selfish misery. And because of it, Nate grew up without both parents. We're being targeted by the men he owed. And I may lose Nate.
It's hard to miss someone you don't know. And it's harder to forgive someone who was never sorry. I never want to be like him. I guess that's what my father taught me…not to be like him. And that's what he taught Nate, too.
Please, don't take my brother, I pray. I'll give up anything.
Fifteen minutes outside of town…I realize that maybe God does answer prayers. And maybe I was wrong about giving up anything.
"What the fuck is that?" Callum mutters, squinting at something in the distance. With the sun already below the horizon, most of the road is cloaked in inky shadow.
I narrow my eyes, trying to pinpoint what he sees. The headlights beam across the roadway, and my heart stops.
"No," I whimper, staring in horror at the familiar black Lexus parked beside the truck smashed into a tree on the side of the road, smoke boiling from the engine. The windows are shattered, the driver's door standing open.
"Fuck," Callum growls, realizing a little too late exactly what we're looking at: The death of hope.
"Emmett!" I cry, choking on his name. "No!"
Chapter Eleven
Emmett
"Where's Dillon?" I ask Easton, striding through the doors of the Sheriff's Office, impatient as hell.
"The closet he calls an office."
"Thanks," I snort in response, amusement sliding through me as I turn to head that way.
"The kid is with him."
I pause midstep, spinning around to face Easton. "What?"
"The kid," he repeats. "Nate."
"Fuck," I breathe, my eyes falling closed as relief rips through me. "Where did he find him?"
Easton strokes his chin, grimacing. "Didn't find him, man. The kid showed up here about an hour ago, demanding to talk to him."
"Jesus. Did he say where he's been?"
"Houston."
"What the fuck?"
"Dillon will explain it," he mutters, glancing back down at the stack of paperwork in his hands.
"What is that?"
"Criminal history on your guys."
I gape at him, shock running through me.
"The kid is smart as hell, man." He cuts his eyes down the hall toward Dillon's office. "I'll let them explain it, but yeah. We know who the pricks are now. I'm doing the paperwork to get warrants."
"Fuck," I murmur, drawing my first real breath in what feels like days. "Someone needs to let my crew know they can stop searching."
"No can do. Dillon doesn't want to spook them before we make a move." Easton jerks his chin that way. "He can explain. I've got shit to do here."
"Thanks," I call over my shoulder, already striding in that direction. I pause outside Dillon's office door long enough to rap my knuckles against the wood, but I don't wait for a response before pulling it open.
Dillon glances up from behind his desk, but I'm not worried about him. My eyes go directly to the kid—Nate. He's seated across from Dillon, his hands folded together across his stomach, his head tilted back. He looks exhausted. He tips his head forward, his eyes meeting mine.
"Jesus," I rumble, staring at him. He has his sister's eyes. Her nose, too. He's a big boy, at least 6'2" and built like a brick shithouse. No wonder the kid plays football. "Your sister has been worried as hell about you, kid."
Guilt flickers across his face. "I know," he murmurs, a regretful rasp in his voice. "But if I told her what I was doing, she would have tried to stop me. They tried to kill her." He swallows, his jaw pulsing. "I wasn't going to let them try again."