No getting away from this shot.
I brace myself and thumb my gun’s trigger but before I can pull it and despite knowing it’ll be too late, the asshole drops to the ground quicker than a sack of shit.
From a single, silent shot out of fucking nowhere.
I skim my eyes across the parking lot, searching for a familiar face. Diego?
No one comes forward.
Yet . . . I’m still standing.
My grip on the gun tightens as my conversation with Hayden replays in my mind.
Fuck me. Madelyn.
My heart beats faster than my legs can carry me as I sprint back to my pickup. Until I see her face in the windshield. Safe and secure.
And scared shitless . . . of me.
Her fear reaches out to me, grabbing me by the throat and shaking me to my core.
Goddamn me to hell and back.
For the first time in my life, I can relate to this foreign feeling. The blind panic. Nearly losing my mind with the possibility of losing her. Madelyn’s not the only one shaken by what’s happened. Or hasn’t happened—yet.
Me. I’m afraid.
I’m afraid. For her.
22
Madelyn
I missed my chance to escape. I was too stunned by the sight of him gunning down those men. Afterward, he came charging toward the pickup and climbed inside before my panicked mind could even process the word RUN.
He first stops at the Shelby Quick-Mart, ushering me inside to buy bottled water and a burger with fries. He demands we use my bank card in the process; I’m too shaken to protest. Then he drives out of Shelby’s town limits and checks us into a small motel catering to truckers and the overflow of down-on-their-luck riffraff looking to escape town. I’m led inside and told to sit on a chair. I don’t have a choice but to do as he orders.
Placing the burger and water on the nightstand, he steps outside. I hear him on his phone.
Another call.
Another shooting spree?
Oh my God. Who is this man?
There’s no Dalai Lama–ing what I just witnessed. He’s a killer. He shot those men in cold blood.
And the three men at the truck stop?
“I’ve got blood on my hands,” he’d said. And he meant it. He was telling me the truth. And if he caused me to be nervous and on edge before, I’m terrified right now.
I thought I’d caught a glimpse of his heart. But with my rose-colored glasses perched crookedly on my nose, all I could see was red.
The thought makes me sad. I brush it off, cast it aside in favor of my more rational self. The one who says, “He’s beyond saving. Get the hell away from him. Escape.”
But how?
The only way out is by that door or through the front window—if I can figure out how to smash it. Too noisy. An impossible, impractical plan.
I feel dizzy, the room begins to spin. And what do my eyes abruptly land on? The water bottles.
There’s this quote I’ve always liked. Old-fashioned sounding but solid advice nevertheless. It goes: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Glancing at the closed door, I pop up from my seat and drop to my knees before my duffle bag. Hastily, I search inside until my fingers wrap around the pill bottle.
Opening the bottle, I pour a blue pill into my palm and stare at it in indecision.
Great, it’s not like roofies come with the recommended dosage. I bite my lip, then pour out a second pill. Relying on gut instinct, and that fact that he’s a tank of a man.
Who made tender love to you.
Who gunned down five men.
Who may or may not be hunting your sister.
Right.
I pause and listen but don’t hear him talking. Maybe he’s just listening to whoever is on the other end? Or . . . he’s done with his conversation. Let’s face it, he’s big in many ways except with talking.
Hurrying over to the water bottles, I twist off a cap, squeeze the powdery content of two blue pills into the bottle, shake, then quickly tighten the cap back into place.
I’m back in the chair and innocently sipping from my own bottle of water when he stalks back inside and slams the door.
He pauses, looks at me, looks at the bottle by the burger, then back at me. And I swear his eyes widen ever so slightly, like he understands what’s up.
But I’m overreacting, right? How could he guess I’ve decided to give him a taste of his own medicine?
“You’re a lot like your sister,” he says, sounding . . . amused.
“In some ways more than others,” I manage to reply. This sudden change in mood sets me on edge. His mild manner makes me like him. It’s similar to liking a pit bull or rottweiler when their tails are tucked between their legs instead of when they’re barring their teeth at you.
He shakes his head as he grabs his meal and water, then comes to sit down on the edge of the bed, straight across from me.
I don’t dare glance at his bottle. Or react when his eyes meet mine as he opens it. The seal’s broken but fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice.
“You’re right,” I begin.
He bites into his burger and chews. Takes a second bite and chews some more. No water.
But finally, an answer. “About what?”
“I should never have called you.”
Our eyes meet. Something flashes across his, briefly, before it’s gone. “No, you shouldn’t have. Too late now.”
“What do you plan on doing to me? I’m a witness, after all.”
“You’re more than that.” He bites off another mouthful. I want to encourage him to wash it down, better for the digestion and for my escape.
“So?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
His lips lift slightly. Then he lifts the bottle to his mouth and to my absolute shock, chugs the entire contents. He even goes as far as to lick his lips.
Thank God.
I stare at him, wondering how long the roofie will take to kick in.
“A warning, Madelyn.”
Oh crap. I stiffen.
“Be extremely careful who sees you. And even more careful about who you fuck with.”
“What do you mean?” I gasp. He knows, I think. Of course, he doesn’t. He shot back the entire bottle of water like a dehydrated man trapped out in the Sonora desert.
He stands up and heads into the bathroom.
Do I make a run for it now? Or wait?
I hear the toilet flush. Then the sink run. When he comes back into the bedroom, he’s wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You still have that gun in your duffel bag?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He kicks off his shoes and then lord help me, rips his shirt up and over his head. His abs flex, and suddenly I’m thirsty, my throat bone dry.
No. Escape.
I watch, fascinated, as he pulls back the bedspread and top sheet and climbs into bed.
Pants on. That’s a first.
Then he closes his eyes.
I don’t dare make a sound. Don’t dare inhale or exhale. I count the seconds, the minutes until I hear his breath deepen.
Quietly, ever so quietly, I rise to my feet.
Scooping up my duffel bag, I tread softly to the door.
Without so much as a peep, I turn the inside lock, open it, and step outside into the bright sunshine.
It’s only then I take a long, deep inhalation.