“Just do it. Thirty minutes. No more than thirty minutes,” I say and hang up.
I would call now, but I don’t know if there’s anything to call about. As soon as I put the car in park, I get out and walk briskly to the truck, which is empty. I rush to the front door, try the knob and find it locked, so I start knocking. It takes me pounding about ten times before it finally opens. My jaw drops and I practically jump back when I see Tate. A messy beard covers his face, and he appears to be pale and sweaty.
His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and the left one has a purplish ring around it. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can’t move. As far as I know, Tate has never been in a fight. And the clothes he’s wearing … an oversized t-shirt that’s been ripped on the left side, revealing a large cloth that looks like it’s covering a wound. His arms are covered in scratches, but it’s the rope marks on his neck that terrify me.
“What are you doing here?!” he seethes in a harsh whisper.
“What happened to you?!” I ask, my eyes wide as I glance at his wound. “What happened?!” I demand again.
He jaw tics and as he glares, he whisper-shouts. “Keep your fucking voice down.”
My stomach drops. I blink at his tone and the fear in his expression. I lower my voice and ask, “What happened?—”
“You need to get the fuck out of herenow,” he demands quietly. “Leave, Joss. Leave.” He inhales shakily and his blue eyes fill with unshed tears. “Please leave. Go!”
My heart is slamming so hard inside my chest, I can barely breathe. Every bone in my body is telling me to heed his warning and leave, but he looks tattered. Suddenly, I’m wishing I’d told Livie ten minutes instead of thirty. I study him again.
“Go!” he urges again, eyes wide.
I take another step back, hoping my eyes convey what I’m thinking, “I’m going to go get help. I’ll get you out of whatever this is.”
I’m turning around when I hear a familiar voice say, “Are you fucking kidding? You promised you’d stay put!”
My entire body goes rigid. So many things happen at once—my jaw drops, my palms start to sweat, and my heart pounds even harder. So hard that I think it’ll truly give out on me. I tell myself to react. To turn around or scream or do something, but my body remains frozen. I hear them arguing. I don’t know how much time passes before I’m finally able to move, but when I do, I’m staring straight into Mallory’s brown eyes.
57
JOSSLYN
Idon’t understand what the fuck I’m looking at right now. An apparition, maybe, because there’s no way … there’sno fucking way. She looks different—her long, straight dirty blonde hair is dyed black and cut to her chin, and her clothes are baggy and casual—but it’s definitely Mallory.
“You died,” I say, mouth hanging open.
I look at Tate, who looks miserable and terrified.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”
“Come inside,” Mallory says, pushing Tate out of the way and opening the door for me like I’m here for fucking lunch.
Even in my dumbfounded state, I know that’s not a good idea. The way Tate looked when he opened the door and told me to leave demands I go get help. The fear in his expression begs me to run. Heart in my throat, I glance to the driveway and back, trying to calculate how many steps there are between me and my car, but Mallory takes a step forward and lifts a gun to Tate’s temple.
“Come inside or he dies,” she says simply.
Tate’s entire body visibly starts to shake and I stop breathingand walk inside. She slams the door and I turn so my back isn’t facing her. Someone clears their throat, and my eyes fly in that direction. My stomach hollows when I see the man sitting there.John.
“Joss, you know John,” Mallory says with a hint of amusement.
He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. When his eyes meet mine, he doesn’t look pleased, which gives me nothing to work with. Is he also her hostage? No. Tate is a hostage. He’s wounded and looks like he could pass out at any moment. John is holding a magazine. He looks … fine. Worried, but fine.
“Why?” I ask in a horrified whisper. John looks at the magazine in his hands.
“Have a seat,” Mallory says, waving the gun at the loveseat near the door.
My entire body shakes as I sit down. Tate hisses in pain as he sits beside me and I cross my arms tightly to keep from shaking. It occurs to me as I glance over at him that he’s been here with her for a while now. Hours? Days?
I look at the bloody gauze on his abdomen, and look at Mallory. “He needs help.”
“So sweet of you to worry about him even now,” she says, sitting in the chair across from us. “Don’t worry, I didn’t shoot him and it’s not as bad as it looks.”
