“We’ll go around,” Trent said. “Through the backyards.”
We doubled back, then hopped a wooden fence into someone’s yard. A small dog started yapping, and I froze, butTrent kept moving, pulling me along. We crossed Spruce Lane at a run, heading for the vacant lot behind the old feed store. The school was still at least a mile away, and we had no more backyards to cut through. We’d have to risk some street exposure.
We reached Mason Street, the last major cross-street before the school.
“Almost there,” Trent said, scanning the area. “Stay close.”
I nodded, unable to speak through the tightness in my chest. Every step brought us closer to Sophia, but also closer to confronting whatever had taken over the town. The people I’d started to trust, to build a life among—all potential threats now. All potential puppets being controlled by unseen hands.
The abandoned grain elevator loomed ahead. According to Carol, it had stood empty for decades, its rusted metal sides and crumbling concrete foundation a monument to Garnett’s fading agricultural past. Kids dared each other to venture inside, spinning stories about ghosts and accidents. The perfect place to move unseen.
We darted across Mason Street toward the grain elevator’s rusted fence. The school’s bell tower was visible just beyond it, so close now. Sophia was there. My daughter. The only thing in this world that mattered.
“Wait.” Trent’s arm shot out, stopping me. His whole body tensed, head tilting slightly. Listening.
I heard it too—the crunch of gravel under boots. Someone was on the other side of the fence.
We froze, barely breathing, as the footsteps approached. Trent’s hand tightened around mine, his other reaching for his weapon.
The gate swung open, and Sheriff Wade Parker stepped through. He wore the same blue shirt and khaki pants as all the others, but his sheriff’s badge was pinned to his chest, catchingthe afternoon light. His eyes—still crinkled at the corners from years of squinting into the Montana sun—were vacant and unfocused like Carol’s had been. Like someone had wiped away the person behind them. His gun belt hung at his waist, the leather worn from years of use. His right hand rested on his holster.
“Identification required,” he said, his voice stripped of the good-natured drawl I’d come to know over diner breakfasts and chance meetings at Dutch’s store. “State your purpose.”
Trent shifted almost imperceptibly, angling his body between Wade and me. “Just heading to the school, Sheriff. Parent-teacher conference.”
Wade’s head tilted, but it wasn’t a natural movement. “No conferences scheduled today.”
“Wade,” I said, stepping forward despite Trent’s attempt to keep me behind him. “It’s me, Evie Phillips. Sophia’s mom. You know me.”
Something flickered in Wade’s eyes—the barest hint of recognition, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. His hand hesitated, then continued toward his gun.
“Unrecognized visitors will be detained for processing,” he said, his voice flatter than before. “Resistance is not permitted.”
“He can’t hear you,” Trent whispered. “Not really. The override is too strong.”
Wade drew his weapon and pointed it at Trent’s chest. “Surrender and prepare for processing.”
No. This was Wade Parker, who’d helped me change a flat tire in the rain two months ago. Who brought treats for Sophia to give to the stray cats that hung around the bar and grill. Now he was aiming a loaded gun at us without a flicker of emotion.
“When I move, run for the fence,” Trent murmured, his lips barely moving.
“What are you going to do?”
“Something stupid. Get ready.”
Sweat trickled down my back. The school was so close—just beyond the grain elevator.
“Last warning,” Wade said. “Surrender for processing.”
“Hey, Sheriff!” Trent called suddenly, his voice loud and commanding. “10-64 at the water facility. Repeat, code 10-64. All units respond.”
Wade’s body went rigid, his head snapping toward the direction of the water treatment plant on the edge of town. The movement was so abrupt, so unnatural, it made my stomach turn.
“Priority override,” Wade stated, his eyes unfocused as if listening to commands I couldn’t hear. “Water facility security breach. Responding.”
For three endless seconds, he stood frozen in place, the gun still pointed at us, his mind clearly processing conflicting instructions.
Trent’s hand found mine, and we bolted toward the fence.
