That certainty scares me more than anything else she’s said.
“Send it,” I relent, my voice steady in a way that surprises even me.
A second later, my phone vibrates with an incoming message. I don’t open it yet. I just sit there, my son warm against my chest, the future narrowing to a single, terrifying point.
“Kate,” Addison calls quietly, reading my silence. “You don’t have time to freeze.”
“I know,” I say, and I do. I’ve never known anything more clearly. “I just… need a second.”
Julian squirms, awake now, his small face puckering in the way that means he’s about to cry. I bounce him gently, resting my cheek against his head. He smells like milk, baby soap, and something indefinably him. The idea that anyone might hurt him, might even try, snaps something cleanly into place inside me.
“Okay, I’m doing this.”
Addison exhales audibly, relief breaking through her control for the first time since she called. “Good.”
“I’m not saying it’s smart,” I add.
“I never said it was.”
I glance toward the front door again, this time with purpose instead of dread. “How long do I have?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “That’s the problem. The list is circulating. People are moving.”
“Then I move first.”
“That’s my girl,” she says softly.
I hang up after promising to text once I’m on the road, once I’m safe, once I can lie convincingly enough that she’ll believe me. The call ends, leaving the apartment too quiet, the air too still.
I open the message with the coordinates. A town name I don’t recognize immediately. Rural and remote. Of course it is. The kind of place you go when you don’t want to be found.
“Looks like we’re taking a road trip,” I murmur to Julian, forcing brightness into my voice.
He responds with a gurgle that feels like blind faith.
“Don’t worry, baby,” I whisper, the words catching slightly in my throat. “Daddy will keep us safe.”
God, I hope so.
16
RYDER
The thunderstorm comes down hard enough to flatten the mountain. Sheets of rain hammer the glass walls of the house, turning the world outside into a moving blur of gray and green. Thunder rolls low and deep through the valley, the kind that rattles bone more than eardrums. I like storms like this; they remind me that nature doesn’t ask permission—it just does what it’s going to do.
The dogs circle my boots as I pull on a jacket, already wound tight with purpose. They know the routine. Storms mean checking and securing the perimeter, and they are ready.
“All right,” I mutter. “Let’s make sure nobody does anything stupid.”
That includes them.
Outside, the rain soaks through fast, mud grabs at my boots as I move toward the corrals, head down, shoulders braced. The horses shift when they see me coming—silhouettes against the storm, muscles rolling under wet hides.
Wild horses don’t like storms. They tolerate them. Big difference.
“Easy,” I call out, voice steady, pitched low enough to cut through the rain without spooking them. “You’ve been through worse than this.”
One of them snorts, tossing his head like he’s personally offended by my optimism.
