“Um… hang on a second, Eddie.”
It’s a simple question. Please, for the love of God, answer it.
“Kiki?”
Maybe she’s out with some other guy and doesn’t want me to know. Hell, maybe she’s in bed with some other guy.
Love that visual, brain.
“Oh—oh my—oh no. Oh my God?—”
I sit up straight, fingers clamping down on the steering wheel. “Kiki?”
A sharp clatter cuts through the line, like she’s thrown her phone down.
“Kiki,” I repeat, the fear growing with each passing second. “Kiki, answer me.”
What the hell is happening?
Then I hear her, her voice strangled, panicked and comingthrough the line at a distance. “Oh my God. Oh my God. No, no, no, no?—”
“Kiki, what the hell is?—”
But she doesn’t answer.
The call cuts off mid-scream, the line clicking dead in my hand.
Chapter 28
The Only Things That Matter
Eddie
Do you know how hard it is to keep a truck on the road in damn near whiteout conditions? Sixty miles an hour on roads built for maybe thirty-five, with no guardrails to save your ass if you slip? Pretty fucking hard.
But I have to get to Kiki. Ihaveto find her.
I white-knuckle the wheel as I hug the curves, the tires fighting for traction and the back end of my truck threatening to slide out from under me. Common sense tells me to keep my eyes locked on the road, but I scan the sides, searching for Kiki’s car. Looking for any sign it’s gone off the road into a ditch, or worse, down one of the steep drop-offs into the ravine below.
But there’s nothing, and I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.
I skid into her driveway and slam on the brakes, damn near hitting Kiki’s car. That’s when I realize something is very, very wrong.
Kiki’s car sits running, her driver’s side door standing wide open, the key still in the ignition.
But Kiki is nowhere to be found.
Fuck.
I’m out of my truck in seconds, yanking my collar up against the wind threatening to cut straight through me, and grab a crowbar from the rear toolbox. Hopefully I won’t need it, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. “Kiki, where are you?”
The only reply is the howl of the wind through the pines.
My gaze snaps to her front door, or rather, what’s left of it.
Glass litters the porch, glittering in the dim light that spills from inside the cabin. The old wooden door has been damn near kicked off its hinges, hanging crooked like it no longer has the will to stay attached, and snow is already collecting inside.
As I step closer, dread gnaws at my gut.
