“I don’t need a gun. There’s like fifty of them in the house.”
“I know,” he said, voice softening as he slowed to a stop in the driveway. “Take it, Kiyah. It’ll make me feel better, especially with that asshole lurking.”
He was serious. The joking tone was gone, and what was left was my baby brother trying to protect something he couldn’t afford to lose.
I reached out before I could overthink and accepted the cool steel. I checked the safety. Satisfied, I secured it in my purse.
“Okay,” I said softly. Relief crossed his face so fast it hurt. “Go,” I told him. “You’re gonna be late.”
“You’re gonna be okay?” he asked as I stepped out of the car, closing the door.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Lock the door and set the alarm.”
“I will,” I confirmed, letting myself into the house. I secured myself and watched him pull out of the circular driveway.
I barely had time to think about the gun weighing heavily in my purse when Grant texted me.
Grant:Good news. Mr. Preston offered to meet with me tomorrow.
Something loosened in my chest, and I finally felt I could breathe.
Help is coming.
* * *
I had barely settled into the mattress when my phone rang. I’d just closed my eyes and my stomach had settled. It wasn’t 100%, but it was manageable. I fumbled with the phone on the nightstand and squinted at the number before answering.
“Hello?” I answered, still a little dazed from my brief nap.
“Kiyah. This is Mr. Gilbert, the medical director at Emerald Hills.”
My breath stalled and my pulse spiked. There was a pause that was just long enough to make me sit up.
“Your grandfather is awake,” he said. “He’s asking for you by name.” My chest tightened painfully. “To be this lucid end of stage is nothing short of miraculous. You should come as soon as you can. I tried calling your father earlier but reached his voicemail.”
“And my grandmother?” I asked, pulling on clothes.
“She isolated herself in her room. It’s not looking good, Kiyah. His vitals… they’re dropping fast.”
That was all I needed to hear.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I bounded down the stairs, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, grabbed keys and my purse. I launched myself into the Mercedes, and the engine roared to life. I drove erratically while I attempted to call Grant.
“Shit,” I cursed when the phone slipped out of my shaky hands and fell onto the floor. I reached for it and nearly slammed into the back of a minivan. “Okay. Okay. Just get there, and then call,” I said aloud.
I was close—two miles away, driving the winding streets towards Emerald Hills. I glanced at the phone that buzzed across the floor mat. The screen flashed Grant’s name.
I never saw the headlights as the car careened off the road. My head snapped sideways, and pain detonated behind my eyes as the world spun. The vehicle eventually skidded to a stop.
My vision tunneled briefly as I attempted to orient myself. The windshield was splintered in several directions like a glass spiderweb. The air smelled like burnt rubber and gasoline. My ears rang as I unbuckled my seat belt.
Movement caught my attention. Shapes stepped outside of a car, and those shapes soon turned into masked men.
I didn’t have time to panic. My instincts kicked in hard and fast. I launched myself over the console and fumbled for my purse. My fingers hooked the strap just as the driver’s side door was yanked open.
