He paused.
Listened.
The night was still. Too still.
“No engines,” he said. “No footsteps.”
“No wind,” I whispered.
His eyes narrowed. “Get inside. Now.”
I obeyed, sliding into the seat and buckling in, my heart pounding hard enough to bruise my ribs. Tate got in the driver’s side and locked the doors, hands gripping the wheel.
He radioed dispatch.
“Unit 12 en route. Passenger secure.”
Static.
Then: “Copy. Units in pursuit of two figures heading northbound—”
The radio cut out.
Just—
dead silence.
Sheriff Tate tapped it, frowning. “What the—?”
My breath fogged the window. “Sheriff…?”
The streetlamp beside us flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then died, plunging Main Street into deep shadow.
A chill crawled down my spine. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“No,” he muttered. “It’s not.”
The SUV’s heater hummed, the only sound.
Until—
A soft tapping.
On the glass.
Right beside my door.
I jumped, slapping a hand over my mouth. Tate reached for his weapon, leaning over to shield me with his body.
His voice was a harsh whisper. “Stay down.”
I crouched lower, adrenaline buzzing like electricity in my veins. “Is it them?”
