Thursday Night
Rena Jones sat in the backseat of the King Cab pickup as the rain poured down like the sky had cracked open, pelting the top of the cab with a violent staccato beat. Her brother lay slumped beside her, his shirt soaked with blood and rain, his breaths coming in short gasps.
She pressed her trembling hands to the wound on his side. Her fingers were warm and sticky with blood, and no matter how hard she pushed, she couldn’t seem to stop it.
“Brock,” she choked, glancing at her husband, who was driving, his hands tight on the wheel as he navigated through unpaved back roads. Every bump and hole in the road had the truck bouncing and Sam grunting in pain. “We have to get Sam to a hospital.”
“No,” Sam ground out, his voice barely a whisper. His face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes pained. He was shaking, whether from shock or cold, she couldn’t tell.
The windshield wipers were going full force, slapping rhythmically against the glass, but the rain was winning. Water sheeted over the truck like they were underwater.
Tears stung her eyes, hot against the cold. “But—”
“He’s right,” Brock said from the front seat, turning halfway toward her. His face was hard, but his eyes showed his deep fear. He loved Sam just like she did. It had been the three of them for so long. Ever since Brock walked into her life when she was eighteen and they fell in love. It was her and Brock and Sam against the world. Doing what needed to be done to keep them above water. The three musketeers. The three amigos.
“It’s gonna be fine,” Brock insisted. “A flesh wound.”
“It’s not a flesh wound!” she snapped. “He’s losing too much blood. He needs stitches, a transfusion—something!”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam mumbled weakly. “Just… Let’s get home. You can patch me up. Like last time.”
Rena shook her head, throat closing. Last time was years ago, and the gunshot hadn’t been this bad. That time, it had gone in and out of his upper arm. He still had the scar, which he’d covered with a tattoo of a cypress tree that reminded Rena of the one that grew out of the swamp behind their Mimi’s house.
This time… there was more blood.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, her voice low, furious. “Baldwin wasn’t supposed to be home.”
They’d been hired for four jobs. Four clean, silent entries. In and out, no one the wiser. Get the documents, break the computer, steal a few shiny things to throw off the scent. No one gets hurt. No one around to see them. The first two had been letter-perfect, no one suspecting the reason for the break-ins.
But this time? Tonight had turned into a damn nightmare and now they were stuck in the middle of a torrential downpour in an unfamiliar area in the middle of nowhere.
They’d entered through the back of the house after Sam disabled the alarm from the main box. He was so smart, her little brother. So damn smart. Her eyes burned, the deeply buried regrets that she should have done something, anything, to get Sama real job, maybe even into college, rather than letting him follow her and Brock into a life of crime.
Intel had said Baldwin was in Dallas until Saturday, and he always took his German shepherd with him when he traveled. So, after Sam took down the alarms, they should have had all the time in the world.
But halfway through corrupting the hard drives, they heard three rapid barks from upstairs. A canine alarm. The dog sounded furious, then Rena heard a muffled voice.
Footsteps thundering down the stairs barely before they could register that they weren’t alone in the house.
Baldwin, shotgun in hand, stepped into the doorway with surprise, anger, and fear in his eyes.
Rena had screamed. Brock fired. The dog lunged. Gunshots coming from her husband and Sam. The loud report of the shotgun going off once, pump, twice. The dog yelped, crumpled. Baldwin fell back, clutching his chest. Or was it his throat? It all happened so damn fast.
And then Brock was screaming, dragging Sam out the front door. Rena’s ears still rang from the echo of gunfire. She wasn’t even sure which one of them had hit Baldwin.
But it wouldn’t matter who fired the fatal shot. They were either killers or accessories to murder.
Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he survived.
God, she hoped he survived. Please, God, let him live. BaldwinandSam.
The rain had started somewhere in that chaos, while she waited with Sam bleeding in her arms as Brock brought the truck around. Now it was drowning the world.
“Fucking road’s flooding,” Brock muttered, his voice faint but with a hint of panic.
Her husband never panicked, so she knew this was bad.
“The rain just started—” she said, but she could see the risingwater now, remembered the storm last weekend that had kept them in town until Tuesday night. They were supposed to be done by now, but they’d been delayed because of the damn spring rain. The unpaved back roads were turning into rivers. Mud slid under their tires.
