Chase teeters in place. Blood spreads in a horrifying pool around his entire leg.
My heart stutters, knees wobbling as the reality of the evening sinks in. “Chase, I swear to God, you better help me out here.”
A groggy mumble meets my ears.
Not helpful.
I let out a grunt of frustration, adjusting my grip as I brace my feet, sliding his arm around my shoulders, then tugging him forward until I’m half dragging, half guiding him up the driveway. His boots slide against the snow as I stagger forward, his broad frame pressing into me.
My gaze zigzags from left to right, and I silently pray that Chase lives next to smokers who are willing to brave the storm for a quick nicotine rush on their front porch.
But there’s no one around. Only a ghostly, mocking howl of wind.
“Why’re you…helping me…” Partially limping, he leans in farther, his arm deadweight around me. “I don’t…”
“Doesn’t matter. We just need to get inside. Is the door locked?”
No response.
Guess I’ll find out.
It’s a short driveway, and a single step brings us to the front door. He trips on it, nearly toppling us both onto the frosty concrete. “Shit,” I mutter, my body shaking from the weight as my hand flies out to grip the pillar for balance. My bare foot connects with the welcome mat, sliding it out of place, and a small silver key catches my eye, glinting beneath the porch light.
Steadying us both, I bend over, then pull the screen open and jab the key into the lock, twisting sharply.
The taupe door unbolts with a creak.
Instantly, a wet nose grazes my shin, followed by a mass of long, scraggly fur coiling around my ankles. Chase stumbles through the threshold, and I maintain my grip on him while we beeline toward the couch, and I deposit him with a grunt.
The living room is dark and cluttered, only the glow of streetlight filtering through the half-cracked blinds. Multiple guitars, in varying stages of completion, lean against the far wall. Jackets hang haphazardly by the door. A pair of shoes, a dog leash, a dripping faucet cutting through the silence.
I blink at the man sprawled out on the couch as my toes curl into the old carpeting, my feet wet and frozen.
Phone.
I need to call for help.
My eyes dart around the darkened space, looking for a landline. Do people have those anymore? I race forward as my hands claw at the walls in search of a light switch. A moment later, warm yellow light brightens the space. “Do you have another phone?” I call out.
I wind through the small kitchen, then double back to the living room, my gaze shooting left, right, forward, back. No phone in sight.
My focus pings back to Chase, who is now slumped sideways on the muddy-brown sofa. His dog is curled up beside him, both paws dangling over the couch as the animal stares at me, silently begging me to help.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
Emotion seizes my chest, and I rush forward, slapping Chase’s cheek. “Hey. Are you still with me?” I place my ear against his ribs, registering the echo of subtle heartbeats and shallow breathing. “Do you have a first aid kit? We need to get this bleeding under control. And I need a goddamn phone.”
The dog whimpers beside us, pawing at his owner’s leg. The image breaks my heart.
I grip my hair with both hands, telling myself to focus, stay calm.
Surveying the room, I look around, desperate for something I can use. There’s a metal toolbox shoved halfway under the coffee table, its lid slightly ajar. Lunging for it, I yank it open. Wrenches, screwdrivers, a roll of electrical tape.
I push it aside and jump to my feet.
Think, Annalise.
Where would a guy like this keep—
