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Finally, the engine roars to life. I slam my foot down on the gas pedal. The tires screech as I peel out of the dirt driveway. The pain in my shoulder is intense, and my vision blurs. I force myself to focus, driving as fast as I can down the winding country road.
As I drive, I call Pocus. My voice is strained with pain and fear. “Don’t come here. It’s a trap. They’ve got a machine gun.”
A long pause comes on the other end of the line. I hear Abigail’s voice in the background, asking what’s going on.
“Graveyard, are you okay?” Pocus finally asks.
“I’ve been shot.” I grit my teeth against the pain. “I don’t think it’s serious, but they knew we were coming. It’s a trap, don’t come,” I repeat breathlessly.
Another pause. I hear Pocus and Abigail whispering to each other. Finally, Pocus speaks again. “I’m coming to get you. Just hold on.”
“Pocus, stay there,” I shout, but he can’t hear me over the roar of the wind. “Fuck!” A mixture of pain and frustration clouds my brain.
I drive as fast as I can. My shoulder throbs with every bump in the road. My mind races, and I want some fucking answers. There’s only one person who can tell me everything I want to know, and I need to see her now. I try to ignore the searing pain in my shoulder and focus on the road ahead of me.
It’s a long drive back to the jail, but I won’t give Meredith a choice this time. She’ll tell me everything I need to know. I just took a bullet for her, for fuck’s sake. She owes me the truth, once and for all.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
It isn’t until I arrive at the jail that I realize how much blood I’ve lost. My right arm feels numb, but I don’t have the fucking time for this. I carefully take off my riding jacket and undo my shirt. The best I can do is tie my shirt around my arm like a tourniquet to stop more bleeding. I put my jacket back on and stumble toward the jail, feeling heavy and clumsy.
When Meredith comes out, she looks as horrible as I feel. Maybe even worse. Her face is pale and blotchy. Her eyes are red-rimmed and spilling over with tears. I haven’t seen her in a few days. It looks like she may have been crying the whole time.
“What happened to your arm?” Her voice is so hoarse I barely hear her.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mumble, then reconsider. “Actually, it does. Pocus and Abigail found an address for Charlie. When I went to get her, I was shot.”
I expect a reaction. Maybe surprise or worry, but her face doesn’t change.
“I knew this would happen. It’s too late, Graveyard, he’s got her. You won’t get her back without serious risk to your life. I can’t expect that from you. She’s gone.”
“I don’t accept that,” I growl. “Do you seriously think a gunshot wound will stop me from finding Charlie? To stop me from clearing your name? I’m not giving up, but you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I can’t,” she cries. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Dammit, Meredith!” I shout, garnering an angry look from a guard. I wave my hand in apology and look back at her. “We are so far past that. I’ve already been put in danger. This guy won’t let me get away with a flesh wound. We are far too deep in this shit now. Get over yourself and tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Now she looks surprised. A million emotions pass over her face in the span of a few seconds. Then she takes a deep breath. She straightens up as if she’s preparing herself for battle.
“When I was twenty-one, I met this guy.”
I already don’t like the way this story is headed. I don’t want to hear about her former lovers, but if this is what I have to wade through to get to the truth, I’ll listen patiently.
“I was fresh out of college, about to get my Master of Social Work so I could start helping kids in the system. We fell in love instantly, and he manipulated me. He told me he could sense my gift, that he knew I was special. So I told him that I sensed gifts too.”
She takes a shaky breath and looks down, paler now. She looks like she’ll be sick. This story is taking a toll on her. She’s probably never shared this before with anyone. I don’t want her to be in pain, but I have to know the truth if I’m going to face this guy.
“He supported me completely through grad school and helped me get my first job,” she says. “He had a lot of connections in the city. I was so thrilled. I felt so lucky. I was working on my first case and immediately realized the child had a gift. He was like Seer. He had visions, but every family he went to thought he had schizophrenia. Because it was on his record, very few families were willing to try with him.”
She takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, her agitation growing.
“I told my boyfriend about him. I told him how bad I felt for the kid, and I knew he’d understand completely. It wasn’t fair that he would fall through the cracks of the system because ignorant adults thought he was crazy.
“My boyfriend told me he had a family friend, someone who had experience with gifts. I had no reason not to believe him. He seemed as genuinely concerned as I was. I felt like it was the best option.”
“You were only trying to do what’s best.” I try to reassure her. I can already tell this isn’t going down a good path by the way her face contorts in pain.
“They seemed so genuine,” she whispers. “I did several home visits with them. Nothing was amiss. They were a great family. The boy was so happy to have a place that understood him. They started the process to adopt him out of foster care. I felt like the case was closed. Shit, I even got an award for it.”
