“I don’t feel right about you goin’ tofetchmy little brother.” He turned, his eyes finding mine in the dark. “I need to go. He’s my problem, and I want it that way.”
A few beats of quiet surrounded us.
Finally, I asked, “You sure about this, Tag?”
“Yep.”
“Does Bea know you’re leaving?”
“She encouraged it.”
I snorted at that, unsurprised to hear that Bea’s love egged on Tag’s. I took a deep breath and reached back to grab my seatbelt. “Alright then. Let’s roll.”
A couple hours later, we pulled into a neighborhood no one in their right mind would want to be in. The houses were close together, the exteriors trashy. Many had shutters hanging by a thread, collapsed decks, missing shingles, and broken windows. Old cars lined the road andtrash cans overflowed.
Tag puffed an exhale. “This place has gone downhill.”
“It used to be nice?”
“Not nice. Just…livable.”
“How long’s it been?” I knew from experience that Tag going nonverbal was a bad sign. So, as long as I was around, we would keep talking.
He thought for a second, doing some mental math. “About seventeen years.”
“Seventeen years can change a lot.”
He nodded, his eyes clinging to a particular house as we passed it. His heel tapped repeatedly on the truck carpet. My heart rose to my throat as worry banded around my chest. I wanted Tag to be okay, but the closer we got to our destination, the more certain I was that he wouldn’t be.
We turned a corner, and there, plain as day, was the white Ford Ranger parked catty-corner in a yard against a rusted chain-link fence at a house that was in desperate need of a power-wash.
“Well, looks like he’s home,” I murmured. Even though finding Cooper here couldn’t mean good news, at least it meant we wouldn’t be on a wild goose chase.
“This ain’t anyone’s home. It’s prison.”
He swiped his hands down his jeans as I turned down the gravel-turned-grass driveway. A push mower sat mid-yard with the grass behind it cut short, but the surrounding grass maybe knee-high; whoever attempted to mow it had waited about four weeks too long. A bush hog would’ve worked better.
I threw it into park. “Pass me my gun.”
Tag opened the glove box and we both holstered our weapons.
I drew a deep breath. “You ready?”
“No.”
“Need a minute?”
“No.”
He pulled the door handle and so did I.
Immediately the scent of fresh cut grass hit my senses. There were only twenty feet or so between the drive and the porch steps. Nearing the front door, my hand hovered over my gun, prepared to pull it outbecause the door stood ajar—six inches open—allowing the putrid smell of human filth to pour out. After a half-second glance through the opening, bile rolled up my throat.
“Tag.” I turned to find him frozen on the bottom step, fear in his wide eyes. I made a stop motion with my hand. “You stay right there.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Why?”
“Because if I have to drag your ass out of here, I’m going to be pissed.”
