Her laugh—soft, disbelieving the first time it ever slipped past her lips when I teased her.
Her hair—the way the light caught it that afternoon in her daddy’s garden, when I knew,knew, she was mine whether she wanted to be or not.
Her mouth—the way it shaped my name last night when she told me she loved me.
The memory guts me, rips me raw. Because that might’ve been the first and last time I’ll hear it.
My grip tightens on the wheel until my knuckles scream, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the sound of that voice on the phone.
That voice.
Jackson.
I know it like I know the sound of my own gun loading. Rough. Mocking. That bastard’s laugh still rattles in my bones from all those years ago when I first heard it echo through the courthouse.
He was in my house.
With her.
My stomach heaves. Rage and terror choke me so hard my vision goes white. I swerve, nearly clipping a tree, the branches scraping across the roof with a metallic shriek. I slam the wheel back straight, the tires screaming across gravel, only to fishtail near a dustbin and clip it hard. It skids, toppling behind me, scattering trash across the street.
I don’t slow down.
I can’t.
I can’t get the picture out of my head—Summer, barefoot, bleeding, with that fucker’s knife at her throat. Her wide eyes locked on me in terror I swore she’d never wear again.
My chest collapses, sobs tearing loose from somewhere deep and savage. I’m fucking crying—me. I never cry. But now? I can’t stop. My vision blurs with salt, hands slippery on the wheel, my body shaking apart.
Because the man who’s got her—the man who’s touching her—is the one ghost I never thought I’d face again.
Jackson fucking Moore.
I’ve burned the radio lines raw, my voice still rattling inside my head as I gun it down the last stretch of road. Carter. Haywood. Every goddamn deputy I can reach.
Get there. Don’t let anything happen to her.
If they’ve done their job, she’ll be safe. She’ll be on the sofa when I walk in—hair tangled from sleep, eyes wet with fear and anger, ready to scream at me for not telling her the truth about Constance and Adelaide. I’ll take it. I’ll take every ounce of her fury if it means she’s still breathing.
We can get through anything. Wehaveto.
I want to tell her that we’ll move away. We’ll start a new life. I’llgive up my badge and we can stop running. Let’s do it all properly. Let’s do it her way. But I need to get back to her first.
I tear down the bend, back tires spitting gravel like shrapnel, and skid into the driveway. Headlights flash against steel.
I kill the engine and fling myself out of the truck, barely aware of the slam of the door behind me. My boots hit gravel, crunching hard, lungs burning as I sprint toward the porch. Relief flickers for half a second. They’re here. She’s safe.
Then my stomach drops. The front door yawns open. Not kicked. Not forced. Just open. Waiting.
“Fuck,” I breathe, already moving faster, already knowing.
The first thing that hits me when I cross the threshold isn’t sight—it’s smell.
Thick. Metallic. The putrid stench of iron that no amount of bleach can hide. Blood.
The world narrows. My vision tunnels.
Haywood is slumped against the wall a few feet away, mouth open, a string of blood still trailing from the corner down his chin. There’s a black hole in his chest the size of my fist. His gun’s still in his hand, but cold.
