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More lights were flickering on in houses, lighting up the street as I chased Emmett down. He kept stumbling, and I was catching up. That was when some bells started, the flashing red lights following up ahead.
Train tracks.
I couldn’t let him get ahead. If he made it over and I didn’t, he’d be gone in seconds, and then who knows how fucking long it would take me to find him.
No fucking way.
Not today.
The arms were lowering ahead, and I could feel the rumble in my feet. The train was close.
Maybe I wouldn’t make it over. But then I thought, maybe he wouldn’t either.
I pushed a little harder. I was right behind him, my fingertips just brushing the fabric of his shirt.
We ducked around the barrier, me a breath behind him, the train just fucking there, suddenly blasting on its horn while I reached out.
I could’ve grabbed him.
Pulled him back.
And taken out my rage on his face before I handed him over to the police I could hear coming from somewhere around us.
But instead, I accidentally tapped his foot with mine.
It made him off balance.
He stumbled into the track, catching himself with his hands before he face-planted.
It was a natural reaction.
But one that took too long.
The train horn screamed.
And I’ll never forget that fucking sound.
The sound of redemption.
So fucking sweet.
DRAKE
The train was slowly beginning to stop, its brakes screeching while the sound of multiple sirens kept getting louder and closer.
I knew things could turn to a shitstorm with questions and accusations about what the hell happened tonight, but I’d deal with it when it came time. My feet were already carrying me back to the garden.
I wasn’t done.
She was there.
And there wasn’t a police officer or fucking anyone who was going to stop me from finding her.
An ambulance pulled into the lot just as I got to the path, and suddenly, Aspen appeared in front of me, waving them down. “We found her, please hurry.”
I didn’t waste a second, taking two steps at a time down to where I could see the group of lights, men in the fucking dirt, shoveling with their hands, scraping at something hard, trying to get around the edges of it.
“It’s free,” Dad yelled. He was on his fucking knees in the garden, his arms underneath this fucking wooden box, lifting it from a hole where there must have been at least three feet of fucking dirt on the top.
