Damn Mike and his incorrect intel. Ralph is here, and I had only been minutes away from him pulling up on Annie and me skipping down the dirt road, without a freaking fear in the world. I breathe hard, emotions shooting through me like heroin, every nerve in my body twitching, focusing on the need to destroy. Through the roaring in my head I hear a voice, and turn in my seat, trying to focus on her. Annie. Sweet and innocent, her mouth moving, words saying something. I frown, fighting a losing battle in my seat, concentrating on her lips. My mind clears briefly, and I hear her voice.
“—are we stopping?”
I grip the steering wheel, trying to sort out the madness from the logical—what I should do versus what I want to do. I shut my eyes tightly before they flip open on their own accord. I press the gas and yank the steering wheel roughly, jerking out into traffic and skidding into a tight turn before accelerating back down the dirt road.
I pull into the first farmhouse we come to, driving around to the back. The yard is empty, no cars in the drive. I park and turn to Annie, my eyes focusing and finding her. I grip the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on her face, trying to attempt to inject some normalcy in my voice, but I can see from her eyes that she can sense that something is wrong.
“Annie. I need you to go and wait on this porch. I will be right back. I’m going to leave you a cell phone and set a timer on it. If the timer goes off without me being back here, I want you to use it to call nine-one-one. Do you know how to call nine-one-one?”
“I think so. But you’re leaving me? Alone?”
“Yes. Only for a bit. Fifteen minutes. I need you to wait here on the porch and think about that kitten. If you can do this for me, I promise you that we will get you that kitten. Okay?”
She beams at me, her smile keeping my darkness away a little longer. “Okay.”
With shaky fingers, I pull my phone out and set the timer on it. I hold it out to her, showing her how to silence the alarm and how to dial the emergency call. Then I hand it to her, fighting to keep my face calm and my eyes on hers. “Don’t make that call until the alarm goes off. I plan on being back here before it goes off, okay?”
She nods, her face solemn again.
“Go on Annie. Sit on the porch and wait.”
I watch with twitchy fingers as she sits, waving to me with her small palm. Then I swing the truck around and floor it down the dirt road.
CHAPTER 50: Carolyn Thompson
Carolyn rang Michael’s doorbell, looking at the wilted geranium that sat on the stoop. She heard the chimes fading through the home, then the door opened and Becky stood there.
Becky: a woman she had never liked, never welcomed, never made a friendly effort with. An oversight of manners that might cost her dearly. The woman had once been beautiful, but pinched skin, a perpetual frown, and worried eyes had aged her early. Becky always seemed to fret, a habit that was in full force as she stood before Carolyn, twisting a rag in her hands, swaying gently on uneasy feet.
“Carolyn,” she said shortly. “What are you doing here?” No concern for her situation, no worry expressed for Annie. There was a reason that Carolyn had never cared for her, a reason that was showing its teeth now.
“I need to talk to you about Michael. May I come in?”
“I’m busy. And, as you probably know, the police were here last night. Interrupted us during dinner. You can find any answers that you need from them.” She started to close the door, but Carolyn stepped forward, pushing the door open and moving into the foyer.
“No Becky. As rude as this may seem, I need to talk to you.” Becky gaped at her, glaring at Carolyn’s feet as if she was shocked to find them there, inside her home, invading her personal space. She finally raised her gaze to Carolyn’s, frowning at her and shutting the door.
“Fine. Sit in the dining room, if you refuse to leave. What do you want to know?”
CHAPTER 51
The gate is now open, the chain hanging loosely from metal piping, and I swing the truck in, all concerns of stealth gone. A battle is before me, and I almost moan at the excitement of it. After four years of waiting, I feel beyond ready, panting at the thought of it.
The Ford Explorer is parked at an odd angle, his approach probably as hurried as mine. The door to the shed stands open, and he appears in the doorway at the same moment that I step out of the truck, my hands tucked into my sweatshirt, one palming the knife, the other my gun.
I step forward fluidly, a grin stretching over my face, giddiness spreading through my body at the task before me. He hesitates, the friendly expression confusing him. He steps out of the barn, and as our distance closes, he stiffens. I stop two steps from him, close enough that I can feel his presence, but also his panic. Not panic at me, or my presence, but at the prize he has lost. He looks at me warily, his eyes running up and down my body, dismissing me as a threat. His beady eyes pass over my face and then freeze, returning to my features, his face hardening as recognition dawned.
“What are you doing here?”
He is unarmed—his fat, soft body stiffened only with his newfound anger. My confidence grows at the same time that his brain processes the possible reasons for my presence. He steps back, looking toward the shed, his eyes studying the broken window, the empty shed. Understanding hits, and he turns to me quickly, eyes furious.
“You. Little. Bitch,” he grounds out, stepping toward me. I move quickly in response—learning from my mistakes with Jeremy. I cannot let him grab me, must catch him off guard and unprepared. My stiletto moves, a smooth arch that instantly satisfied every wet dream I have ever had, sinking into his skin just under his ear and sliding in a wet arc across and down his neck until it reaches his opposite collarbone.