I pull into the gravel driveway of an older white farmhouse. My headlights roll over a wraparound porch before coming to rest on a massive oak next to the house with a lonely old rope swing slowly swaying in the breeze. The single porch light doesn’t give off enough light to see much more than the outline of the structure.
I am again taken aback by the surroundings.
I wanted to make it here hours ago—hell, days ago, really, but there were things at work that couldn’t be ignored, and to put icing on the shitty cake, my flight was delayed. I debated waiting until tomorrow to knock on the door, but there’s no way I could be this close to Harlyn and not come no matter what time it is.
I notice several lights on in the house, the warm glow making it look inviting. I could see myself in a place like this with Harlyn. It isn’t that much different than where I grew up. Sure, this house is a hell of a lot nicer, and our porch was two rotten wooden steps that you had to walk on the sides of or risk falling through.
There’s a path leading up to the front door, but I don’t immediately get out of the car. A small, hopeful part of me thought she may come to the door, smile, and throw herself into my arms when she saw me, and we could pretend the past two weeks didn’t happen, but the front door remains closed. There’s no shadow peering out of the window next to it either.
Seconds tick by, and I almost lose my nerve. What if she really doesn’t want to see me? That thought hurts almost as much as her Dear John letter—after I was done being pissed anyway.
When the car lights finally turn off, I open the door and exit. My eyes are locked on the entryway when I slam my car door to see if that draws her out, but the house remains still.
Unease fills me. What if she isn’t here? It’s the first time the thought even crossed my mind. This entire time, I’ve imagined her holed up somewhere that wasn’t rural Georgia and missing me as badly as I’ve missed her, but she could be out, eating or shopping. She could even be on a date. I dismiss that thought and the others. Even if she isn’t here, she will eventually return, and I will be waiting.
The steps don’t creak under my weight, but I don’t dampen my footfalls. I feel the need to warn her since I couldn’t call. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I peer through the long window next to the front door. My heart rate picks up before my mind makes sense of what I’m seeing. There’s a man sprawled out on the floor near the stairs with a pool of blood surrounding his head.
“Harlyn!” I holler, one hand going to my gun and the other reaching for the doorknob. I don’t have to think about what I would do if it was locked because it turns freely in my palm. I shove it open, realizing much too late Harlyn is also on the floor, and the heavy wood bounces off her leg.
Terror fills my veins when she doesn’t move or make a sound. I drop to my knees to check her pulse while still keeping my gun trained on the man ten feet away. I’m tempted to put a bullet in his head so I can be sure he’s dead and give all my attention to Harlyn and the reedy pulse at her throat, but I don’t. Instead, I take my hands off her long enough to retrieve my phone and call 911, placing it beside her and touching the speaker icon.
The call is picked up quickly. I rattle off the address I committed to memory days ago after Frank tracked her down using means that would get us both in trouble. I curse myself for not going right then. If I had, Harlyn wouldn’t be on the floor, bloody and beaten with a knife sticking out of her torso.
It feels like hours pass before I hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Harlyn’s breathing is shallow, and her pulse is even more faint than when I arrived. The only thing keeping me together is the fact that I can’t take my hands off her while applying pressure to the wound around the blade, and I have to stay calm to direct the 911 operator.
“My gun is on the ground,” I remind her so she can relay the message to the police. I’ve identified myself several times—partly because I just don’t know what else to say, and partly because I’m hoping it will make them get here faster.
“Yes, I know, sir. Do you know if the other person is breathing?”
“No, he still hasn’t moved.” I want to tell her I hope he is alive so I can kill him myself, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Okay, they should be pulling up now. Do you see them?”
“Yeah. In here!” I shout, realizing it’s a cop and not the ambulance. “How far out are the EMTs?”
“They are right behind the police,” she promises, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Now, I need them now!” I bellow as the police charge through the door, their weapons drawn.
“Step away from her,” one of the officers demands, pointing a gun at my head.
“No, my name is Special Agent Boone Landry with the FBI. Where is the fucking ambulance?” I spit.
Harlyn’s eyes flutter open, lazy and unfocused.
I stop breathing. “Harlyn, Harlyn, talk to me,” I demand. Her lips move a millimeter, but she doesn’t speak. “Stay awake, sweetheart. I’m here, you’re going to be okay. Stay awake.” I wish I could touch her face, but I can’t risk moving my hands.
Her eyes slide closed again, and I let out a bellow of frustration.
“Sir, I need you to back up.”
“Let him be. Cookie confirmed his credentials. Do you know what happened here?” a new voice asks.
“No, this is what I found when I arrived.” Lights flash across the front yard as the ambulance finally arrives.
“Do you have an ID on the deceased male?”
I look away from Harlyn long enough to see an older officer crouched next to the other body.
