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What the hell? Hunter rubbed his eyes. He was sitting on a couch, a comforter thrown over him. The room was dim, pale light breaking through the rain, meaning either early morning or early evening. His shirt was gone, but he still had on his jeans. His shoulder hurt like hell. One of his hands was bandaged across the palm.
Hunter’s brain couldn’t piece it all together.
Wait. He knew this room.
The Merrick house.
But then who was this kid, peering at him curiously, reaching out a hand to touch the piercings in his eyebrow?
Hunter caught his wrist again, but more gently. “Where is everyone?”
“Mommy is working.” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I wasn’t tired anymore.”
The house was a well of quiet, insulated by the rain smacking the glass outside. At least that meant it was probably morning.
The boy stretched for a remote control on the coffee table, ignoring Hunter’s hold on his wrist. “Can I turn on cartoons?”
This was . . . surreal. Hunter let him go again. “Sure.” He paused. “Do you know where everyone else is?”
“They’re sleeping.” The boy climbed up on the couch next to him as if he’d known Hunter all his life. Then he clicked on the television.
Hunter sat there for a full minute and wondered what to do.
Unfortunately his brain kept replaying the previous night.
Fire.
Gunshot.
Calla.
The music from the cartoons was like water torture. Hunter rubbed at his eyes again, suddenly worried he was going to be sick.
He needed to find out what had happened, whether they were still in danger.
He stumbled off the couch, leaving the boy there. The front door was locked, but he threw the bolt and stepped onto the porch.
Rain coursed down from the dark gray sky, slapping against the siding and running in rivers down the driveway. It had to be very early, because he didn’t sense motion from any of the houses on the street.
Wait—maybe he still had his phone.
No, his pockets were empty. But blood stained the waistband of his jeans and streaked down one leg.
Hunter stepped onto the front walk, letting the rain hit him. He put a hand out. No power in the drops; just a normal storm.
“I thought the only person crazy enough to stand out in the rain was Chris.”
Hunter turned. Gabriel stood in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt. His hair was rumpled from sleep. He didn’t look panicked, but he looked tired.
About thirty questions came to mind, but Hunter said, “Who’s the little kid?”
“James. Hannah’s son.”
That meant nothing to Hunter. “Who’s Hannah?”
“Mike’s girlfriend. You’ve seen her; she was one of the firefighters at the police station last week. She stayed at the carnival to help, so Mike brought him here.” Gabriel paused. “You want to come in out of the rain or what?”
Hunter realized he’d just been standing there, feeling rain trail through his hair and run in rivulets down his chest.
