Time drags, seconds stretching like bubble gum until she’s back, gasping for air like she’s just surfaced from an underwater tunnel.
“It’s okay,” I say, untying the knot. “I’m here. You’re fine. What did you see?”
“Blood...” she manages, her voice quaking. She flings herself into my arms as soon as the rope falls away, word-vomiting the scene. “So much blood... everywhere. On his hands, soaking his white shirt, gray pants, black shoes. His face... it was on his face, his forehead like he wiped his bloody hand there, and—”
“A man?” I echo, my mind whirring through possibilities. Puzzle pieces turn face up, waiting to be popped into place. “What did he look like? Where was he? On the ground? Is he the one who got shot?”
“No, he’s not dead, he’s the one shooting. He’s the shooter.”
My heart starts pounding in my ears, the picture becoming all too clear.
“He had... he was...”
“Keep going, Hailey, what did he look like?” I steady her as she sways. “Did you see where you were?”
“No, everything was blurry; his face was blurry, but—” She swallows hard, eyes darting right like she’s chasing the memory as it slips away. “He wore a—”
“Awhat? A watch? A ring?”
“A long, brown coat. I... I couldn’t see the place clearly.” She shudders harder, trying to push away. Her brow furrows in frustration or confusion, maybe both. “There was a lot of space. Empty space. Bricks, or crumbling concrete walls. Not a house. Definitely not a house. Maybe a church?”
A warehouse.
The pieces click together with a clarity that chills me to the bone. My hands shake when I pull Hailey in closer, raining small kisses on her head.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s mine.
Here.
Safe.
Mine.
“Shh, pretty girl. Let’s get you back. You’re freezing.”
She pulls away, eyes darting all over the place. “It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand.”
I do.
46
Carter
Hailey’s silent the entire, snail-paced drive back. Staring out the window, her fingers seem to be writing on her thigh. Three fingers bend around an invisible pen, the tip scraping an invisible sheet of paper.
I don’t interrupt. It’s easier this way. It keeps her occupied, giving me time to chase my own thoughts and conclusions. I’m recreating her past with this new information, filling in the blanks, altering the chain of events to fit the narrative.
My hands squeeze the living shit out of the steering wheel and it’s all I can do not to rip out the steering column.
White shirt—top button popped.
Black shoes—Italian leather with a disguised steel toe cap.
Gray pants—always an inch too long to cover the heel.
And a brown coat—the collar raised.
Rhett Willard in the fucking flesh.
