What caught my attention the most, though, and twisted my stomach into knots, wasn’t the truck at all, or the road it was on.
It was the camo-colored ATV strapped onto the bed.
Before I could even process what I’d seen, loud barking followed by angry, raised voices startled me so much I nearly dropped the binoculars. I tossed them onto the bed and rushed outside as fast as I could.
The utility shed door was wide open, creaking in the wind. Charlie stood in front of it, hands in the air, the groceries he’d collected sprawled on the ground in front of him. Rocky the dog was a few feet away, squared up and barking ferociously. Next to Rocky, stood Tate.
Pointing a gun right at Charlie.
Fear so acute I couldn’t breathe gripped my chest like a vice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, crashing down the stairs two at a time. “Put that away!”
“Stay back, Reece! I caught him sneaking into your utility shed,” Tate yelled. “Call the station. We can get a helicopter out here in thirty minutes if there’s a pilot available.”
I ignored him, my large strides carrying me down the last flight and over to them.
“Reece, don’t!” Charlie yelled.
I ignored him, too, and stepped in front of him, shoving him behind me to block Tate’s shot. “Put the gun down!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Tate yelled.
“Put that down, and we’ll talk,” I repeated. “I know him. He’s supposed to be here.”
Eyes darting between me and where Charlie peeked around my shoulder, Tate dropped the gun. “Fuck. I thought?—”
“You didn’t think, you hot-headed dick,” I interrupted, still shouting. “Is that how you greet everyone you don’t know? Barrel first?”
He swore again and flicked on the safety before holstering it to his hip. “Only the ones who might be murderers,” he threw back. “Rocky, heel.”
As obedient as ever, Rocky ceased his barking and sat at Tate’s heel, tongue lolling and looking quite pleased with himself.
“Hello, puppy,” Charlie cooed. I wanted to knock him upside the head for having no sense of time and place.
Although if I’d gone nearly forty years without seeing a cute animal, I’d probably be asking, “Can I pet that dog?”too.
Charlie’s canine affection didn’t ease Tate. “Who are you?” he asked, tone accusing.
“Um…” Charlie looked at me, eyebrows raised.
I shrugged.Why not? He can’t arrest a ghost.
“My name’s Charlie.”
“Hold on a second,” Tate said, stepping closer, brow furrowed. “Have we already met? You look familiar.”
Charlie cringed. “No?”
Tate squinted at him a second longer before turning as pale as a, well, a ghost. “Holy fucking shit. That’s not possible,” he breathed, eyes darting back and forth between us. “Holy shit. Holyshit.Tell me that’s not who I think it is. Tell me I’m seeing things.”
“Well, you’re probably seeing things just fine,” I grumbled. “It’s your decision-making that needs work.”
Charlie shot me an exasperated glare.
“What?” I said. “It does.”
“You’re not helping the situation.”
“Canthis situation be helped?”
