He paused.“Excuse me?”
“I said, no.I’m not allowing you to let me down at all.I’ve decided I want this, and you’re not going to play the wounded but heroic hero by making choices for my own good.”The woman actually sounded amused…and slightly bored.
“Don’t piss me off, Amka.”
Now she full-on laughed.“The Hulkis one of my favorite movies.”When his ears started to heat, somehow she noticed.“Fine.We’ll talk about it at a later date.For now, we have enough on our plates.”
The knot in his chest loosened just enough that he could breathe again.He rubbed the back of his neck.“Exactly.I don’t like you being in the middle of this mess.Someone’s trying to kill you.Someone’s blackmailing you.Maybe the same person.Maybe not.I don’t like how it’s circling you.”
“I don’t like it either,” she said.“But we’ll figure it out.”
“I’ve been trying,” he said, frustration flaring.“None of it fits.Jarod gets shot in your driveway.There’s a blackmail note targeting both of you.Somebody bombs your tavern twice.Steve kills Eli in the woods and leaves his body to rot.And somehow, none of this connects clean.”
She sipped more coffee.
Her cabin came into view just ahead, tucked beneath the trees.Somehow, she’d talked him into taking her home to get more clothing before heading out to his place.He slowed the truck out of instinct, eyes sweeping the surrounding woods.No sign of anyone.Nothing out of place.But that didn’t ease the tension riding in his spine.
Amka leaned forward and looked at her house as they passed it toward the end of the drive.“You still think I shouldn’t have come here?”
“I don’t like how calm you are about it,” he said bluntly.“Your house was cleared, yeah, but Jarod still died out there in that truck.Someone came to your property, shot him point-blank, and left.That should rattle you more.”
“It does,” she said simply.“But I’m used to losing people.My grief doesn’t scream.”
He parked and killed the engine.“You ready to go inside?”
“Yep.”She didn’t look over to the side where Jarod’s truck had been.The troopers had it towed the day before.
They walked up to the front together, and the woods around them whispered with the wind.Birds chirped like nothing had happened here.Like no one had bled, or died, or killed.
She opened her door and moved inside.Christian followed her, his mind calculating where Sheldon might’ve gone.
The cottage smelled faintly of must and something floral beneath it, like old soap or dried lavender trying to hold the place together.
The living room opened straight from the front door, cozy but compact, with worn hardwood floors and a low wood-beamed ceiling that made the space feel like it belonged in another time.A faded rug lay between a wide old armchair and a comfortable looking couch.One of the couch cushions was askew, and a folded throw blanket had been shoved hastily to the far end.Against the far wall stood a cast iron wood stove with a small pile of split logs beside it, the ash pan still half full.
To the right, the kitchen took over the back half of the room without any walls separating it.A pine counter stretched across as a partial divider, with three mismatched stools tucked beneath it.The counter had water rings and a dark gouge near the edge—probably from a dropped knife or someone getting too enthusiastic with a can opener.The stove was clean, and the fridge was covered in handwritten notes.
Christian stood in the middle of the room, unmoving, his shoulders still tight.Her stillness caught his attention, and he partially turned.“Amka?”
She blinked once and then again, staring at a simple green knit hat on the counter.“Christian.I think I know?—”
The blast of a gun discharge caught his attention right before pain burst through his chest.He pitched forward, smashing into Amka and the counter, and the world went dark.
Amka went down hard,flailing under Christian.Warmth pooled over her arm.Red warmth.“Christian?”A buzzing filled her ears.Was he shot?Slight movement sounded, and a shadow crossed her vision.Pain burst through her head, and she slumped unconscious.
Amka drifted.Sound fractured.What had hit her head?
The weight on her shifted.She tried to hold on, tried to grip Christian, but her fingers wouldn’t work.Nothing did.Her body had turned traitor.Blood soaked her shirt—his, not hers—and it was warm and awful and everywhere.
Christian.
She wanted to scream but couldn’t shape the breath.Her lips barely parted.Her vision pulsed white around the edges.A face came close, too close, and she turned her head instinctively, but pain lanced her skull like a nail driving through the base of it.Her neck refused to support her.She gagged.
Then everything tilted.
Her body was hoisted awkwardly, dragged or carried, she couldn’t tell.Her head lolled to the side, and she caught a glimpse of light flashing past the window.The interior of the house was gone.Her cheek scraped against something cold and rough—someone's jacket maybe—before she was dumped hard against what felt like vinyl.A truck seat.A door slammed.
An engine rumbled to life.
