“We need to stick to the road as much as possible,” she said. “The fields are too wet, it’ll be really hard to walk through them, and I don’t know if the creek has flooded yet. If it has, we’ll really be stuck.”
Ryan looked around. “They went south, probably toward the freeway.”
She shook her head. “They were heading to Privett Road.”
“Really? Why? They won’t be able to get through to the freeway.”
“That’s what they said, that’s where we were going when I saw you. They didn’t tell me where, but there’s not a lot of places they could go. There’s a third guy.”
“When we get to a phone, I’ll tell my dad, he’ll find them. Where’s the closest house?”
“Greg Baldwin.” She pointed north. “About a mile up to his driveway, then a quarter mile to his house from there. I know my mom and Greg had a falling-out, but he’ll help.”
“Greg’s in the hospital, in a coma. He was shot last night. You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “I was at Gianna’s all day. Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan admitted. “But we can break in if we have to, get to a phone and call my dad.”
They held hands and started walking in the middle of the dirt-and-gravel road, the water up to their ankles. The rain continued to beat down, the lightning and thunder battling it out in the sky, and Avery told him everything that had happened since she arrived at Gianna’s and faced a burly man named Brock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brock wasn’t at the house off Privett, and Rena had lost her phone in the crash. The reception had been so bad, what if she got it wrong? What if it wasn’t this house? What if she was supposed to turn left and not right?
She was in a near-full panic, but she had to get it together. For Sam.
Rena left him in the truck to make sure that the house was empty. She didn’t know if she had the courage to take another family hostage.
The door was unlocked, so she let herself in. This was definitely the right house. Brock had done a number on this place—everything had been gone through, drawers still open, file folders tossed about, pictures off the hooks in his search for a safe.
She went back to the truck and helped Sam inside. He was fading and even he wasn’t saying that he was fine anymore. Because he wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. In fact, he wasn’t saying much at all, only his occasional grunt or groan confirming he was alive.
She helped him into one of the bedrooms and stripped off his wet clothes. The bullet wound had broken open again, blood seeping through the bandage. She took the bandage off, it had gottenwet and disgusting. She found a first aid kit in the bathroom and cleaned the wound, dressed it, and then put him in bed naked, piling on the blankets. She brought him water and offered to make him something to eat. He said he wasn’t hungry and closed his eyes. For a minute she thought he’d just up and died, but as she watched, his chest went up and down, up and down.
She put her head down on the bed next to him and stifled a scream. Everything had gone to hell.
And Brock wasn’t here.
Five minutes later, when she was certain Sam was still alive and just resting, she went to the living room and found a house phone. She dialed Brock’s cell phone number.
He didn’t answer. But she was calling from a strange number, so he might not answer.
She left a message.
“It’s me. We’re here. Where are you? I need you, Brock. I need you.”
What else could she say? That she’d nearly killed two teenagers? That the redhead might be dead? That she hated herself and hated him as well? That she wished she never heard the name Mitchell Robinson?
Instead, she hung up, went to the kitchen, and looked for something healthy to cook for when Sam woke up.
Brock listened to his wife’s message. Her voice was full of frustration and deep fear that pained him.
He was the one who got her and Sam into this. He needed to find a way out.
Mitchell Robinson walked into the Verdacorp office, where Brock had been waiting for him. Waiting for more than fifteen minutes before the bastard came in.
“Am I keeping you from something?” Robinson asked dryly.
