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Time is an invisible noose cinching around my neck with every passing heartbeat. She’s slipping through my fingers. I swallow the scream of frustration that gurgles up my throat, clawing its way free. Anxiety given sound.
I pace inside the tunnel. Five steps, turn, five more steps, turn.
There’s gotta be something I missed, some small detail. Evangeline wouldn’t just leave. I know that as well as I know my middle name. And there’s no fucking way Aunt Dixie would just disappear either.
But if they’re staring down the barrel of the proverbial gun, they would leave in a heartbeat if it meant protecting Hunter.
So either they left in a hurry and I need to keep looking, or someone took them.
I jog back to my house, stopping inside the storage area. My chest heaves with breaths far too deep to warrant such a small jog. But my anxiety makes the air feel thin and my throat feel tight.
My gaze flies around the small room, and then I see it. There, in the middle of the hanging tools above my workbench, is an empty hook.
Why the fuck would a screwdriver be missing?
I spin in a circle, my eyes scanning every inch of the area around the door. Was the door locked and she tried to jimmy it open with a screwdriver?
I drop down to my hands and knees and shine my phone’s flashlight underneath the workbench. The yellow beam of light reveals nothing but dust and cobwebs, so I move to the other side of the room.
And there, illuminated underneath the storage shelves, is the familiar glint of metal. The missing screwdriver, marred with dried blood. My hand trembles as I pick it up, praying it’s someone else’s blood. Didn’t Silas say there was a bleeding Savage in his bedroom? Maybe Aunt Dixie used this on him and they fled through the tunnel?
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, something catches my eye from across the room. I sprint toward it, heart pounding in my chest, until my hand wraps around a small, familiar object. The plastic cap of a syringe digs into my palm, bringing a rush of fear.
Sweat dampens the back of my neck as my mind spins wildly. My stomach pitches at what this offending plastic means.
This wasn’t just a message or a warning or even a first strike. Storming the compound wasn’t the play and opening fire on our homes wasn’t the message.
It was a fucking distraction.
6
SILAS
I trace my finger along the edge of the piece of paper, my brow furrowing as I try to read between the lines. But these four lines aren’t hidden clues to where they went.
A low whistle breaks the silence, and I look over my shoulder and see a figure standing just inside my kitchen. Anthony Redford stands in the doorway, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped close like he just came from the barber shop. His narrowed brown-eyed gaze sweeps around the state of my house like he finds it lacking.
Hands tucked into his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he’s going out for a casual evening stroll and not witnessing the attempted murder of my family.
Because that’s exactly what the fuck happened here.
“Looks like you got quite the mess on your hands, huh, Silas?” He scratches absentmindedly at his overgrown gray beard, his bloodshot eyes surveying my kitchen instead of looking at me. “See, the problem is we got a lot of bodies in your front yard.”
I’m already shaking my head, reminding myself that I need to tread carefully here. I’m not in a position to be collecting enemies like fucking trading cards. But if this asshole doesn’t get a fucking clue soon, I’m going to forget that I’m the clear-headed one running this club. And then we’re all fucked.
I turn around, feeling my blood pressure rise with every second that I’m here and they’re not. “What did you say?”
Redford clears his throat, his gaze skipping around like a rock on the lake. “I can’t ignore those bodies, you know? It’s not good for the town and all that.”
I tongue the inside of my cheek, my body wired. “Not good for the town, huh?”
Redford nods, like I’m agreeing with him. “You understand.”
Disbelief carves lines between my brows, dragging a scoff from my mouth. “Nah, Redford. I don’t understand what you’re saying. Why don’t you spell it out for me how you, the sheriff we pay to avoid shit like this, let this happen in our town, at my house. To my fucking son, and my mother, and my goddamn nanny. Where the fuck were you while they were being taken.” It’s not a question. It’s a fucking demand.
Redford drags his hand along the back of his neck, perspiration on his forehead gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the broken facade of my house. “Well, now, see, Silas. You know I leave you to your club business, but this here”—he motions to the front of the house—“this can’t be covered up as club business. So I’m afraid I’m going to need to take someone in for this, son.”
I cross the room in three steps, grab the old fuck by the collar of his brown shirt and haul him against the wall. I look down my nose at him, letting him look at the monster swimming at the surface. The part of me that doesn’t give a fuck about politics or arbitrary rules. To the beast inside of me who will stop at nothing to get his family back safely.
