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“Crawl to me,” I snap.
The man does as he’s told. Meanwhile, I pat down the first man at the waist, keeping a terrifying level of weight on his gut. He’s pushing against me with both hands. It’s necessary to hurt the prick, but I can’t say it doesn’t feel right. No man should hurt a dog, trap a dog, or steal a dog.
I find some zip ties in the first man’s pocket. Goddamn, what do they use these for? Throwing them in the man’s face, I press the gun barrel against his forehead. “Tie yourself. Then turn around so I can check.”
“I c-c-can’t t-t-tie m—”
“You’ll do it or have time to think about it six feet under, motherfucker. Go.”
It takes almost a minute, but he manages to do it. I flip the other man and tie his hands behind his back, too. Then I strip their boots, shove socks into their mouths, drag them over to the bush, and zip-tie their feet together. Moving toward the door, I aim the rifle, ready for anything.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Samantha
“So, what sort of stuff do you paint?” Charles Malone asks, sitting in the driver’s seat of Fletcher’s car, his hand near his hip. I know that he’s ready to draw his gun at any moment. He smells faintly of cologne and sweat and leather from his jacket.
“I experiment a lot,” I tell him, trying to make conversation so this is more bearable. I think that’s why Charles has decided to speak too. “I love exaggerating reality. When I was a kid, I’d always paint a sunset completely yellow, the street, people, and everything.”
I sound like a dork, but I can’t stop. It’s better than wondering if Fletcher… I can’t finish the thought. We were on a date not that long ago. Life feels so unfair.
“My daughter used to paint,” Charles says, fiddling with the cigarette behind his ear with the hand not primed at his hip.
“She doesn’t anymore?” I ask.
“She passed ten years ago tomorrow,” Charles says with a resigned sigh. “She was around your age, Samantha.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That’s awful.”
“Home invasion. She’d started a new job, nothing fancy, just waitressing. Apparently, she was bragging about her tips to a friend in a café. Some scumbags overheard and followed her. They wouldn’t believe she’d left the tips at work in her locker, but she had.”
There’s so much pain in every word, but he never takes his eyes off the forest or his hand from his hip.
“I’m so, so sorry. I just… I can’t…”
He smiles sadly. “It’s okay. Nobody ever knows what to say. I don’t know what to say myself. Being out here, looking out for you, I guess it reminded me
of—”
Suddenly, reality becomes a painting, but it’s three-dimensional. I’m inside it, watching as the hyperreal red erupts from Charles, the glass glittering and fracturing, spraying me. The bullet hits Charles in the side, soaking his clothes. I’m screaming in slow motion on the floor, my hands over my ears as I try to make sense of this. There’s more shooting. I try to slow everything down even more and give myself time to think and plan.
“Run,” Charles croaks. “Ru—”
There’s another loudbang. That jolts me from the car. I leap out, hearing gunshots and yelling. I don’t know if it’s me or somebody else yelling. The world is a canvas, and I’m a shaky-handed brushstroke trying to brave my way through it.
I run into the forest, trip, almost fall, and catch myself. My legs are aching, but I keep going. Tree bark sprays in a photographicsnapacross my vision as a bullet must hit a tree. I don’t even know where I’m running, just forward, hearing more shots.
Then I see a dog running at me. I must be hallucinating. Maybe one of those bullets hit me. I’m sure it’s a Jack Russell terrier with a thin black-and-tan body and ribs showing but tail pricked and eyes alert. Then, a moment later, my man is there. He roars something at me and waves a hand.
Get down. I hear this as if it’s coming from outside a glass globe. There’s no sound, my ears ringing. I drop to the ground and put my hands over my ears, pressing small pieces of glass into my skin, but there’s no pain.
Bang-bang-bang. Is that Fletcher firing or the other man? Suddenly, something warm licks at my face. There’s fire. It’s a bomb of some kind. Maybe time’s gonesuperslow, and I will experience a universe worth of death. Oh God, this is awful.
No, it’s not heat. I’m going nuts. I can’t breathe. It’s a dog’s tongue eagerly licking me. I reach up and hold desperately onto his small body. It must be Loki. He’s licking me and trembling and whining like he doesn’t know what else to do. I’m crying, I realize, so freaking useless in a crisis.
I jolt when something brushes my shoulder—the man’s gun. Then I hear Fletcher’s voice. I turn and see him staring at me, speaking slowly. “It’s okay. There’s nobody else. I got the ones at the farm, and that bastard’s gone. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
I hold Loki tight to my chest. “Ch-Charles,” I whisper. “They shot him.”
