Avoiding the main part of town, I zoom past Victoria Falls, and when I ascend Mountains Road, I breathe out with relief.
No one’s tailing me.
At one of the highest points, I skid the car to a stop and race out. I run down the slope where Dax had taken me on his motorcycle. It’s his favorite spot in the mountains, and if he’s hiding out, he has to be here.
“Dax! Dax!”
My chest heaves and I scan every nook and cranny. The rock formation we sat on is vacant, and the majestic view is cold without him.
Unable to waste a second, I get back in the car.
Sheriff Lennon said his team hadn’t spoken to Dax, meaning he wasn’t at the clubhouse. Oh my gosh, I hope he got out. If he satisfied his brother with loot from my house, surely he’s free to leave The Scorpions?
My heart pounds.
Maybe Lance rewarded him with being able to stay at his old house?
I step on the gas, and fly the car into Logan’s Point. I don’t care how much of a scene I make, revving this luxury car around the neighborhood. All I want is to see Dax.
Remembering how much Dax had to bash the front door open, I opt for the one window not boarded up. It squeaks open and I hurl myself inside.
“Dax?” I creep through the house, wary of any noises. When I get to the bedroom, and see the cabinet is still placed where I hid behind, my heart sinks.
I scrunch my eyes closed and slide down a moldy wall.
It can’t be.
Is he still at the clubhouse?
With an uncontainable retch, I force myself up. On wobbly feet, I slip back through the window.
“Get out of my way!” I shout at a group, who circle the Porsche.
They jump back, and I stomp my way into the car and slam the door.
When I pull up at The Scorpions Clubhouse, a vortex of sickness thunders up from my stomach. I gulp it down, my vision blurring white.
I pull the chain out from under my sweatshirt and rub the St. Christopher pendant.
Nope. I gotta do this.
I’m not leaving him.
Tucking Dax’s necklace back under my sweatshirt, and wiping my sweaty palms over my thighs, I remind myself there’s a tracker in my car and lawenforcement will eventually follow. My parents should be done arguing with the sheriff by now and let them get on my trail.
I walk over the chain-link fence and down the cracked driveway of the clubhouse. It’s eerily quiet. No raucous bar noise echo from inside. I’d swear no one was here, except there are motorcycles cluttering the garage entrance.
My heart misses a beat.
Dax’s bike is here.
I swallow the bulging lump in my throat and teeter on my toes. The bar inside is empty.
Okay, Vanessa. You’ve come this far.
I push on the door and it creaks open. I cringe at the noise, waiting for someone to pounce. Over my shoulder, I imagine McCoy. But thankfully, it’s still only me and my nerves.
Edging my way inside, I pad across the concrete floor on tippy toes. I make my way across the bar into the rear, darkened area. Through the doorway, I pivot in indecision.
