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Vehicle into a tree.
Rear passenger door open.
Rope left behind.
No Callie.
No Mercer.
My brain puts it together before anyone says it.
She got out.
A breath leaves me.
Not relief, but something close enough to hurt.
She fucking got out.
Bishop ends the call.
“We're twenty-three minutes away.”
“Make it less.”
He looks at me.
“I'd prefer to arrive alive.”
I get into my truck.
It takes nineteen minutes to get there.
I don't remember most of the drive.
The wreck appears around a curve.
Dark SUV. Front end buried against a tree. Windshield shattered. Driver's door open. Rear passenger door open.
Two sheriff's vehicles sit on the shoulder.
I stop before I'm fully parked.
“McConnell.” Bishop's warning follows me out.
I ignore it.
A deputy steps toward me. “Sir—”
“Where are the tracks?”
“Roman McConnell?”
“Yes.”
“Deputy Harris.”
“Where are the tracks?”
