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“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can handle—”
A hand on my hip. “Right by me, butterfly.”
Then he nudges me forward and we walk side by side to the door.
She opens her mouth. “Nova—”
“Shut up,” Lake growls, cutting off my sister.
George starts in. “Don’t—”
“You shut up too,” Lake says, still growling, still holding George tightly by the arm. Then he moves to the door, punches a few buttons on the automatic lock near the knob, and pushes the wooden panel wide, standing to the side.
A glance down at me.
A nod to go in before him.
I carry Steve to the pile of blankets, carefully maneuver him onto them. He whimpers again but immediately tries to stand up. Only, he’s not bearing weight on all of his legs, his back right one hangs limply. “Stay there, honey,” I whisper, coaxing him back down, knowing that I’ll have to get him seen by a vet somehow.
Knowing that if George and Ashley made it to Lake’s house, there has to be a way out for us.
My stomach convulses at that thought, but I ignore it, resume carefully tucking the blankets around my poor pup.
“I know it’s shit timing”—my head flies up, eyes going to Lake, seeing George on the floor by the door, Ashley pale-skinned and standing next to him—“but I need you to come out to my place.” A pause. “I know the roads are shit and ours hasn’t been plowed yet, but you have the snowmobile, Mack, and I need you to pick up Jer on the way.” Another pause before he curses softly. “Yeah, man, you know there are tickets in it for you.”
Tickets?
I frown, start to stand up.
“They’ll even be on the glass if you can be here within the hour.”
Twenty-Eight
Lake
The proper motivation in place,and Mack’s assurances that he’ll be here as soon as possible, I glare at Nova’s sister.
“If I were you, I’d sit your ass down and shut up.”
She scoffs, but clambers down next to the asshole whose head I want to rip off.
He hurt Nova.
He put hands on her, shook her like a rag doll.
He hurt Steve.
The urge to commit murder rises again, and I exhale slowly, trying to let it go, trying to release the anger.
Knives thrown my direction.
Shrieking and shouting and weaponized tears.
Stories sold to the press.
