Jerking to a stop, my feet skid on the wet grass and I nearly tumble down the slope. I catch myself and whip around to face my brother, my voice pitching wildly.
“Bad men!” I shout. “They’ve got Michael, and now one of them is after me, and we’ve gotta hide!”
Jackson’s mouth drops open, his eyes bugging out as I wrench his arm and haul ass to the wood pile. Maybe we can sneak into the garage, and I can hide Jackson in the attic. At least I know he’ll be safe.
And then I need to go get help.
“What about Michael? We can’t just leave him!” His protests are too loud.
“Shut up!” I whisper-bark, crouching low when I hear a rumbling growl. Risking a peek, I rest my fingertips on the windowsill and try to look through the garage windows and out the other side.
The view is slightly distorted, but I catch a glimpse of the big guy standing in the middle of the parking lot, scanning the area. His eyes narrow in on the garage, and I lose my breath completely.
Jackson gasps and grips the back of my shirt.
“Who is that, Annie?” His voice quakes, and I can’t answer him.
I don’t even know.
Just a bad man.
A man worse than Dean.
Oh shit, Dean.
He’s dead.
I don’t know how to feel about that right now. All I do know is that the man I love is stuck inside with the men who shot my stepfather.
“I gotta get help,” I whisper, spotting the fence.
Of course! Jackson can squeeze through there and run for safety. We’ll have to be quick about it. If the big guy looks out the window at the wrong moment, we’ll be exposed.
“Come on.” I tug on his shirt, but he wrestles free of my grasp.
“No. Michael’s in trouble.”
“I know,” I rasp urgently. “That’s why I want to get you someplace safe, then go get help.”
“Stop worryin’ about me and go help him!” Jackson scowls.
Anger bubbles in my gut and I clench my brother’s wrist. I don’t have time for this!
The door of the garage slams open and we both flinch. Jackson looks at me, his eyes narrowing with determination.
“The police,” he whispers so softly I can barely hear him. “Go get the police.”
My first instinct is to argue that they wouldn’t help the likes of me.
But then I think of Tucker.
Tucker might.
I nod and am about to start pulling Jackson down to the fence when he shakes me off with a huff.
“I’m gonna get this guy off your tail. You go,” he mouths, pointing to the driveway, and I swear my heart plummets into my sneakers.
“No!” I mouth, shaking my head firmly, but Jackson just gives me a look I’ve never seen before.
It’s fierce, stubborn, full of so much fight that I don’t even recognize the kid.
Jumping up, he races down the side of the garage, smacking his hand against the wood and yelling, “Come get me, you big idiot!”
Shit! What is he doing? Trying to get himself killed!
There’s a deep, rumbling growl from inside.
I close my eyes, trying to figure out what the hell to do.
Jackson’s just put himself in the worst kind of danger. He doesn’t understand! I have no idea if the big guy chasing him is armed. What if he shoots my brother?
I should go after him.
But Michael.
But Jackson!
I can’t help them both.
But you could get the police.
I reach into my back pocket for my phone and realize it’s still sitting on my bed.
Dammit!
The police station is just down the road. What kind of damage could these men inflict in the time it takes me to get there?
Closing my eyes, I lean against the wood pile and try to think past the thundering in my heart. It’s a smashing beat in my brain, and I have to scream above it just to hear myself think.
Move, Annie! Do something!
Slapping the ground, I push off it and race around the side of the garage.
Jackson’s a wily, slippery kid. He’s probably got enough smarts to outrun that lumbering beast for a few minutes.
Sprinting for the driveway, I run as fast as my legs will carry me. I nearly barrel into Mrs. Abernathy, who starts yelling at me for being so inconsiderate. I ignore her, pumping my arms and darting across the street on the angle.
By the time I shoulder open the station doors, I’m a puffing mess, but I haul in a breath and holler, “Tucker! Tucker!”
The office space is empty. Maggie’s not behind her receptionist desk, and I can’t see Wesley or Tucker.
“Dammit! Tucker!” I scream.
Hank appears in his office door, his frown stern and unforgiving.
I flinch and back away from it, crossing my arms and asking, “Where’s Tucker? I need him.”
Pulling off his reading glasses, he eyes me like I’m a crazy person. “He and Wesley had to take a call on the Murphy farm.”
I start hyperventilating, my chest heaving as the panic sets in full throttle. No Tucker. No help. I gotta get back to Jackson. To Michael!
What am I gonna do?
Fisting my hair, I bite my lips against the whimper forming in my throat.
“Annabelle, it’s okay.” Hank’s voice is calm, unusually soothing, and I spin back to face him. “I can help you.”
He can what?
Since when?
I can’t hide my incredulous stare. I don’t even bother trying. Hank’s never said a kind word to me in his life. He either ignores me, tells me off, or places an order. That’s about it.
He never offers to help me.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” He steps toward me slowly, and I don’t trust it at first. I scuttle back, and he raises his hands. “It’s okay, now. I’m not gonna hurt ya.”
Narrowing my eyes, I wonder why the hell he just said that.
His look changes, his eyes softening like he cares, and I shake my head, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Did Dean, uh…” He licks his lips and swallows.
“Dean’s dead,” I squeak. “They shot him, and now they have Michael, and Jackson’s in trouble too!” The words tumble out of me, a chaotic mess that’s barely understandable.
Hank frowns. “Slow down now. Who are you talkin’ about?”
“I don’t know who they are! They just busted in with guns! Dean tried to get ’em to leave, but they shot him! They just shot him! And now Michael’s there and I don’t even know if he’s still alive, and one of them’s chasin’ Jackson!” I’m crying now, no tears yet, but my gut is punching with sobs, making it hard to speak.
“Okay.” Hank nods once like he believes me, then disappears into his office. A moment later he returns, holstering his gun and securing a vest over his chest. Clicking on the radio, he talks in his low, gravelly voice. “Tucker, I’ve got a 10-71 at Duke’s Diner. Going to investigate now. I’ll need backup ASAP. Over.”
I gape at him, my eyes blurring as he pushes the door open. “You’re helpin’ me?”
He looks over his shoulder while Tucker squawks into the radio, “Can you repeat that, sir? I thought you said a 10-71. If I’m rememberin’ right, that’s a shooting. Over.”
Hank rolls his eyes and huffs. “That’s what I said, Tucker. Now get your ass back here. Over.” Clipping the radio onto his belt, he walks out the door.