When we rendezvous at the side of the house, Joe's face is tight with concern, rain plastering his blond hair against his forehead.
“I think someone messed with the generator.” He wipes his forehead with his elbows.
“Damn it,” I mutter clenching my jaw. “You saw anyone?” I scan the darkness beyond him.
“Nothing. Property is clear as far as I can tell.”
I run a hand through my soaked hair, mind racing through possibilities. “Call Mateo and Damien. Tell them to be ready, but not to come yet. For now, we'll lock this place down tight.”
We make our way around, weapons drawn, the rain pelting us relentlessly.
When we reach the front, I freeze mid-step.
There, in the middle of our driveway, stands a silhouette barely visible through the downpour. My heart stops.
“Joe,” I whisper-yell and point to the person standing there and he swings around with his gun raised.
I step forward, squinting through the rain, and the figure comes into focus.
“Sara?” My blood turns to ice.
She's standing there in her silk nightgown, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her pale face. The front door hangs wide open behind her.
What the fuck?
I break into a run, and I reach her in seconds, grabbing her arm and hauling her toward the house. “What are you doing out here?”
She's trembling violently, her skin is cold under my fingers and I pull her against me.
“Did you see anyone out there? Anyone at all?” I ask, my voice sharp with panic.
“I—I got scared,” she whispers finally, teeth chattering. “The lights went out, and you weren't there.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I scan the driveway one last time before slamming the front door shut behind us. Joe locks it immediately, then moves through the house, securing every entrance one more time.
Joe disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with his arms full of candles.
“I'll light these up.” I watch him move through the house, lighting them one by one, casting the rooms in a warm, flickering glow. He heads toward my bedroom, placing several candles on the dresser and nightstand.
“I'm calling the boys,” he informs me, voice tight with tension. “Get her warm.”
Sara’s soaked nightgown clings to her body as I guide her into the bedroom.
I leave the door open, the soft glow of Joe's candles creating long shadows on the wall. I usher her toward the bathroom, but my mind won't stop racing. Was someone out there? The storm must’ve shut the generator down. We checked, there wasn’t anyone. I need to breathe. I’m spiraling out of control.
“Liam,” she whispers, standing at the bathroom door, but I'm moving, scanning the room, dropping to my knees to check under the bed, then behind the door, my movements frantic, obsessive.
Every shadow seems to hide a threat and making my mind fall into pinpricks of hysteria. I'm back at the window, pulling the curtains tight. I move to the closet, but as I’m about to yank it open, Sara's hands reach my shoulder, her pleading eyes holding mine.
“Liam, stop. There's no one here.”
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, my clothes soaking wet and suddenly exhausted from the adrenaline crash. I hold my face in my hands, forcing myself to breathe the way my mothertaught us when emotions ran too high from my dad’s drinking and screaming, and she’d take us to lie under the stars.
It’s as if everything comes rushing down, my brother alive and unable to process that, getting shot. Even though the pain has been manageable, and I’ve survived worse, that was a close call, and when I look up — the anguish in Sara’s eyes startles me.
I feel too much, I always feel too fucking much.
What enrages me the most is the time it’s taken me to heal and not be able to put an end to who’s after Sara. I want her to go in the village again, see her friends, or even take her on a proper date.
