Page 22 of Fractured Hearts

“Here,” she says, sliding the list back to me and taking an aggressive bite of her Pop-Tart. I rip out the page and pocket it without even looking at it. I suddenly feel claustrophobic and need to get the hell out of this house. Every time I look at Jo, all I think about is Maverick, and I can’t think about something having happened to him and still do what I need to do to keep us safe.

In under a minute, I’m in my car and slowly making my way down the dirt drive back to the main road. I swapped the Massachusetts plates for Maine ones this morning once I got word from my dad that he had them added to Maine’s system. I’m swapping the car out for the truck I have stored up here before heading into town, but cops this far up will notice Massachusetts plates immediately. We don’t need to stand out any more than two new people in a small town already do.

The first thing I asked him when I saw his name came up on my phone was if he was able to contact Kai yet. Unfortunately, Harrison is doing a good job of keeping them all off the radar. At least that’s what I’m telling myself, because I can’t handle the alternative.

twenty-one

JO

I inhaled those Pop-Tarts and now I’m paying for it. Not having eaten since lunch the previous day, I was starving, but I also don’t really eat a lot of sugar. My mother’s voice always rings in my head, telling me I need to watch what I eat if I want to find a husband anytime I so much as glance at a cupcake. She’s the reason I left for college and never returned. Now if I could only leave her criticisms behind. Sighing, I look around the very white kitchen. I’m sitting on a white barstool at a white island that’s surrounded by white countertops and white cabinets with a white subway tile backsplash. The only color was the ocean-blue tile floor.

“Four hops. Maybe five,” I tell myself, trying to gauge how far I am from the sink. I found out the hard way that I still can’t put weight on my ankle. It’s how I ended up going down the stairs on my butt just to have Ezra catch me and carry me to the barstool I’m currently sitting in. Being carted around like a child is really pissing me off.

Then I’m reminded as I hop the six, dammit, steps to the sink with the plate under my arm, that the burns on my calves are really tight and the hopping hurts. The right calf got the worst of it with blisters already forming, but of course, it’s my left ankle that’s a mess.

After I wash the plate, I snoop around the kitchen using the counter to keep my balance. There really isn’t anything here. Just basic plates and utensils plus a cabinet of dried and canned goods. I recognize some boxes of snack food from Ezra’s house. He must have put it away while I was asleep. The only thing on the counters are a knife block and a white bowl of fake fruit. Who the fuck puts fake fruit in a kitchen? You’re just asking someone to take a bite out of a wax apple.

I’m already exhausted and in pain from the small amount of movement I’ve done. The couch looks like it’s a mile away from where I’m standing. And the anxiety from not knowing what happened to all my friends, plus not having anything to do, is refusing to be pushed down anymore. I close my eyes and count, willing my heart rate to slow down. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, but I know it’s coming.

A rapping sound on a window scares me right out of my thoughts but also causes me to jump and hit the ground on my side. I groan, rolling into a sitting position and backing against the cabinets to wait and see if I was hearing things. This house is so isolated and quiet I could probably hear an ant scurry across the floor.

The moment I convince myself I’m hearing things, the rapping starts again, and I swear it’s coming from a different window this time.

“Nope. Fuck nope,” I mutter. Pulling myself up just enough to reach the knife block, I grab the first knife my hand touches and sink back down to the floor. “Of course, it’s a fucking paring knife.” The blade was about as long as my pinky finger, but it was better than nothing.

I hear the rapping again, and there’s no doubt that it’s coming from a different window. Someone is going around the house and checking to see if they can get in through an open window. I doubt they can with the way Ezra locked this place down, but I’m also in the direct line of sight for at least two of the windows and maybe a third at the right angle.

Putting the knife between my teeth, I crawl as quickly as I can behind the couch. It’s placed slightly away from the wall, but there’s enough space for me to squeeze into. And just in time for more rapping to come from the window directly across from the couch. I listen for footsteps as best I can over the loud pounding of my heart. It happens four more times.

“How many fucking windows does this house have?” I mutter to myself.

Then the worst thing imaginable happens. The doorknob rattles. I’m on my stomach behind the couch, and my head is right next to the door. There’s no way I have time to shimmy my way out of here before they’re in. I’m not naïve enough to think some glass or a door is enough to stop someone if they want to get in. Definitely not if it’s Patrick. I shiver at that thought. Hopefully, it’s just someone that really likes nautical decor.

The door opens and I see a jean-covered leg step in. I don’t even think.

“Get out!” I scream while stabbing out with the knife. I feel it hit something, which makes me scream again and let it go. Shit. Why did I let it go? I try to grab it from where it’s sticking out of the intruder’s leg, but he moves it away from my reach.

“What the fuck, Jo!”

I freeze, then slowly let my eyes travel up from the protruding knife to an angry face. A very familiar and bearded angry face.

“Oops.”

“Oops? Oops! You just fucking stabbed me, Jo!”

I crawl out of my hiding spot and stand in front of him. “I thought you were trying to break in!”

“You thought someone was trying to break in, so you stabbed them with the smallest knife possible?” he says, pulling said knife out of his leg. Blood immediately stains his jeans dark red.

“Shit.”

It’s the last thing I hear before everything goes dark.

I wake up on the couch. Ezra is sitting across from me on the coffee table. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants with no visible blood this time.

“You have a podcast that involves you looking at bloody crime scene photos, but a knife wound makes you faint?” His face screams, unimpressed.

“Pictures of blood are fine. Fresh from the source is not.” I sit up slowly, checking for more injuries with each movement.