Ghost nodded, already heading for the barn door, urgency driving every step. His mind raced through the implications. If they’d found Leelee’s body, it meant the killer was covering tracks, eliminating evidence. Naomi had been asking questions, connecting dots that someone didn’t want connected.
They reached the horses in record time. Ghost untied Coyote with hands that refused to be steady, then swung into the saddle. Cinder pressed against his leg, sensing his distress.
“You okay?” Greta asked quietly as she mounted Dakota.
“No,” Ghost answered, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m not either.”
Then she turned her horse and kicked him into a gallop.
twenty-five
Blood filled Naomi’s mouth,copper-bright and warm. She swallowed it down and glared up at the man still gripping her braid. He yanked her head back further, his eyes cold above the bandana. “Nothing to say now, fed?” he sneered, leaning close enough that she could smell cigarettes and cheap bourbon on his breath. She didn’t answer—just memorized his eyes, the only part of him she could see clearly. Dark brown, almost black, with a burst blood vessel in the left one. When she got out—not if, when—she’d make sure those eyes stared out from a mug shot.
He released her braid with a shove that sent her face-first into the dirt floor. “Food’s there. Eat it or don’t.” He walked away, boots heavy on the wooden planks. The door slammed shut. Metal scraped against metal as he threw the bolt.
Naomi stayed still, listening to his footsteps fade before she rolled onto her side, spitting blood onto the floor. Her jaw throbbed where he’d hit her, the taste of iron thick on her tongue. From her corner, Angel watched with wide, terrified eyes.
“Are you okay?” the girl whispered.
Naomi nodded, though it was a lie. Nothing about this was okay. She twisted her wrists against the paracord again, feeling it bite deeper. The angle was all wrong—she couldn’t get the leverage she needed. She shifted her weight, trying to see the food tray he’d left.
“Can you push that over here?” she asked Angel.
The girl hesitated, then scooted forward, using her bound feet to nudge the tray toward Naomi. It contained three bottles of water, some stale-looking bread, and what might’ve been bologna sandwiches. Nothing useful for cutting rope.
Frustrated, Naomi leaned her head back against the wall and looked up. Above her, between the wooden slats, something caught her eye. A nail. Rusted, bent, and half-worked out of the old board.
Hope flared in her chest.
“Angel,” she whispered. “I need your help.”
The girl inched closer. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m going to try to stand up. I need to reach that nail.” Naomi nodded upward. “Can you steady me? With your shoulder?”
Angel glanced up, then nodded. Using the wall for leverage, Naomi rolled to her knees, then pushed herself up with her bound hands. The world tilted, her head spinning from the drugs still in her system. Angel pressed against her legs, providing what stability she could.
Naomi stretched, balancing on her toes. The nail was still a good six inches above her reach.
“Dammit,” she muttered.
“Maybe I could try?” Angel offered. “I’m taller.”
The girl was right. Even hunched over, she had a couple inches on Naomi.
“Okay. But be careful.”
They switched positions. Angel braced herself against the wall, Naomi steadying her as best she could. The girl’s fingers stretched toward the nail. “I can’t—wait.” She tried again. “Got it!”
The nail came loose with a squeak of rusted metal. Angel’s fingers closed around it as she stumbled back.
“Don’t drop it,” Naomi hissed.
“I’m not.” Angel turned, holding the prize like it was made of gold. “Here.”
It took some maneuvering to get the nail into Naomi’s bound hands. The thing was about three inches long, the head flattened from decades of hammering, the shaft bent into an S-shape. Perfect for sawing through paracord.
