“Dead.”
25
Madelyn
I wiggle my toes free of my sandals, wearily focusing on the carefree sensation as I fight back my panic. I’ve been sitting on a neatly made twin bed covered in a patchwork quilt someone has lovingly sewn together, twiddling my toes ever since Declan kicked open the bedroom door, shoved me and my duffel bag inside, then left me, locking the door behind him.
The toe trick doesn’t help.
My pain is like a yearlong sun shower, sporadically sprinkling down on me and soaking me to the bone when I least expect it. Yet my throat remains dry. Tight. It’s been that way since the ride from Shelby to this isolated ranch located on the edge of town.
Everything I know has been a lie. Luciana with her “I’m looking for a roommate, too” act. Declan and my naive, misplaced hero worship of him. And Kylie.
Oh my God, Kylie.
She fought five men. Shot three while giving me very specific instructions how to fire on the fourth. We almost escaped, except the fifth man—the one Declan took care of—put a knife to my throat, which stopped Kylie cold. She was breathing when they dragged her from the motel room. Knocked unconscious after being hit over the head with the butt of a gun. Yet he didn’t shoot her. Is Declan right? They want her alive?
If only the man with all the answers would open the door. Tell me she’s trained for this, that she’ll be okay. That this is par for the course in their line of work—whatever the heck that is. I wished that he’d talk to me. Reassure me.
Comfort me.
Remember who you’re dealing with, Madelyn.
I flex the big toe on my right foot. Thinking of my options and knowing that with each passing hour, the chances of finding my sister grow slimmer and slimmer.
An unbearable, unacceptable thought.
Everyone has a boiling point. I tend to be stronger than most people. Patient and hopeful things will work out once the dust settles. A coping mechanism I first fully realized after my father’s murder. With Mama so fragile and my sister too angry, I became the anchor keeping us all grounded. A calming force. A gentle hand. No, not many people have survived riding along shotgun with danger and death and still remain hopeful that everything will be better in the end.
But damn it.
I suck in a breath.
Damn. It.
Sometimes life’s blow is crippling. Sometimes it’s kill or be killed—haven’t I learned that the hard way? Sometimes riding along shotgun isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to take over the driver’s seat.
Time’s wasting.
Sometimes a broken promise is what it is.
Broken.
I’ll find Kylie myself, heroes be damned.
I stand and calmly walk over to the window. Expecting to find bars on it or, at the very least, it nailed shut. All it takes is a slight twist of the lock, and voilà, I have it opened.
Removing a pillowcase from its pillow and a lightbulb from the lamp on the dresser, I wind the cloth around the grooved end, and in two slick moves that would have make Kylie proud, smash the bulb against the wooden windowsill. With the jagged edges, I cut a large square into the window screen.
How long has it been since Declan locked me inside? A half hour. Slightly more? Probably thinks I’m in here, cowering and twiddling my toes while waiting for him to address the issue of how I drugged him. “I’m your worst nightmare,” he said. Yeah, well nightmares can only hurt you when you’re asleep. And I’m wide awake now. Eyes wide open.
Dangerous.
A killer.
A hit man after Kylie.
And after I find my sister and help her out of this mess, all he’ll be is a complicated memory.
Right.
I listen for any sign of him. But the ranch is sprawling and he could be anywhere. Yet with any luck, he’s somewhere inside this massive home and far away from the room he’s locked me inside.
Cautiously, I stick my head outside. The window leads out onto a narrow wooden porch that runs along the full length of the front side of the ranch. Aside from a few white wicker rocking chairs, the space is empty.
Securing the straps of my duffel around my shoulder, I climb outside, careful how I lower myself onto the wood, uncertain as to how noisy I’m being.
A wood panel creaks. I scowl, then toss caution to the wind and take off running.
I follow the long, winding dirt driveway heading away from the ranch. From what I remember, it leads out onto an unpaved secondary road. The wrought iron entry gate we passed through earlier looms up at me in the distance. And for the first time, I notice the intricately detailed sign hanging overhead like an ominous warning.
Freedom’s Bluff.
Terrific. It’s like the sign is giving me a stiff middle finger along with the message: You will not escape.
The gate’s bigger than I remember. Closed, secured tight with a dead bolt. Its bars too close together to squeeze through.
As kids, Kylie and I held climbing contests, especially when we were vacationing on Lake Eufaula, where trees—and subsequent views—abound. I usually was the first one up.
You can do this.
I reach out to check my grip on the rectangular-shaped bars but snatch my hand away as a painful jolt of electricity shoots into my palm and up my body.
I stare at my hand, expecting to see the outline of the pole branded into my skin. The marks are pink and tender. And shocking, in a literal sense, too.
It reminds me of those invisible fences around dog owners’ yards that keep the animals contained. Giving off a warning jolt rather than a killing one. The fence itself is ten feet high and scalable, if not for the electricity.
What are the chances the iron monstrosity doesn’t surround the property?
No one is leaving this place without a shock.
Or permission.
I shake my head, the truth of my situation hitting me full force.
I’m sorry, Kylie. I’ll find a way. I will.
But in the meantime, now what?
I bow my head and trudge back down the dirt driveway. My tears—tasting of salt, sweat and damn-you-Oklahoma dirt—amplifying each laborious step.
When I reach the ranch house, it’s clear I’m royally screwed.
He’s waiting for me, his big body sprawled out in a wicker chair, his legs spread wide, a half bottle of Jack perched on his thigh. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a familiar ornery scowl.
“It’s going to be a scorcher,” Mama used to say on brutally hot days like this. Yet the weather can’t compete with the man waiting for me on the porch. A hot scorcher of a man to look at in his underdressed state. All tight muscle and taut abs. But that’s not the heat I’m concerned about. That kind of heat I can handle. It’s the chill coming off of him that has me drawing to a standstill. He’s not a man you fuck with. He’s not a man you disobey, drug, or escape. Yet despite who he is and what he’s done, he’s really my only hope.
And in that moment, the truth hurts me more than the burn mark on my palm.
“Sit.” He nods his chin toward the vacant wicker chair beside him.
Without a word, I approach, drop my bag, and sit down, my back stiff and straight with my feet planted firmly on the porch floorboards to prevent the chair from rocking backward. That’s what I choose to focus on, my struggle not to give in to the damned chair while I stare at my feet, at my toes that I can barely manage to wiggle with hope.