If these men needed her fear, she had nothing to give.
“And yet you have his dog,” Gunman said.
“I don’t think dog sitters need a lot of vetting.” Was it better to be close to Gabriel or strangers? Truth was she was both. “Is there any other way I can help you?”
Blue Shirt said, “All the videos have Atworth at stop sign up the road. He’s got to live close.”
It was her damned videos.
“It was supposed to be a trip to the Bahamas and an umbrella drink, not this,” Sommer heard herself say.
The three men looked at her.
The silence fell thickly.
After a beat, Blue Shirt said, “His dog knows how to go home. We start her off at stop sign.”
They left her house as a group of five, with Whiskey leading the way. Sommer was flanked by Black and Blue Shirt and the gun guy behind her.
Having a gun to her back was a Schrodinger’s cat of bad situations.
Sommer knew it was there. But she couldn’t see it or feel it, so now she was questioning herself.
She didn’t know how to navigate this situation.
So she’d do as she was told and trust that Gabriel had the knowledge and training to do the right thing, whatever came next.
When they got to the stop sign, Sommer looked over to the graveyard.Hey Daniel, a little help, please.
Whiskey sat beside Sommer, looked straight at the graveyard, and there she howled a tune that was remarkably likeAddio del Passatofrom La Traviata, the song she’d sung the first night of their duets.
“Make her stop,” Gunman said with a poke to Sommer’s back.
Yes, it was out of sight, and yet still a gun, and still there. And still, Sommer couldn’t work herself up to feeling fear. She actually fished around for it because this numbness felt wrong. She thought of Sloane’s true-crime stories, and she wondered if the dead women had been equally anesthetized before they died.
“I’m not making her do that.” She turned in the direction Whiskey was looking, and it was right where Daniel was buried. Goosebumps prickled her skin. “I don’t know how to make it stop,” she whispered.
“Tug her,” the black shirt said.
“Which direction?” Blue asked.
They had to wait for the song to be done, then Sommer crouched. “Whiskey, where’s Gabriel?”
Sommer could swear that Whiskey was sending her pictures about wasting time. Would swear that she understood what was going on but didn’t know how to fix it.
Sommer started crying.
And Whiskey walked up the street two blocks, then up a driveway, a sidewalk, the stairs, and sat her butt beside the front door.
Blue tried the door.
He looked in the darkened windows.
“You think this is his place?” Black asked.
“One way to find out.” Blue reared back, swung his knee to his chest, then thrust his leg out, his heel hitting the door just above the lock.
The door sprang open.
